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(Hnitietsitg  of  Jl3orti)  Carolina 


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Scijool  Hags  3&ebretorti. 


The  two  boys  were  gravely  talking.  p.  8. 


jStJjmrl  gap  §U&teb; 


OR, 


STOKIES    OF    SCHOOLBOYS. 


PjHsirdpIjra: 


AMERICAN   SUNDAY-SCHOOL  UNION, 

No.  316  CHESTNUT  ST&EET. 

NEW  YORK:  No.  147  NASSAU  ST BOSTON:  No,  9  CORNHILL. 

LOUISVILLE:  No.  103  FOURTH  ST. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by  the 

AMERICAN  SUNDAY-SCHOOL   UNION, 

in  the  Cleric's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  cf 

Pennsylvania. 


&§*  No  bool's  are  published  by  the  American  Sunday-School  Union 
without  the  sanction  of  the  Committee  of  Publication,  consisting  of  four- 
teen members,  from  the  following  denominations  of  Christians,  viz.  Bap- 
tist, Methodist,  Congregational,  Episcopal,  Presbyterian,  Lutheran,  and 
Reformed  Dutch.  Not  more  than  three  of  the  members  can  be  of  the  same 
denomination,  and  no  book  can  be  published  to  which  any  member  of  the 
Committee  shall  object. 


CONTENTS. 


I-  PAGE 

Gold  may  be  Bought  too  Dear 7 

II. 
The  Young  Cumbrian 44 

III. 

Bardour .^r....      74 

IV. 
Mansfield 105 

V. 

Temptation  and  Conquest 119 

VI. 
The  General  Illumination 182 

VII. 
The  Busy  Boy  who  was  always  Idle 147 

VIII. 
Conclusion..... 163 

*1*  1*  5 

* 


SCHOOL  DAYS  REVIEWED.   ■ 


i. 

GOLD  MAY  BE  BOUGHT  TOO  DEAR. 

"Bother  the  Latin!"  exclaimed  George, 
throwing  from  him  his  book  in  a  pet.  "I  can- 
not learn  it,  and  I  won't.     I  wish — " 

"And  I  wish,"  said  one  of  his  schoolfellows, 
interrupting  him,  "  that  you  would  mind  what 
you  are  about,  George.  You  very-7  nearly 
knocked  the  inkstand  over  with  your  book  ;  and 
if  you  had  spilled  the  ink  on  my  exercise,  I 
wonder  who  would  have  written  it  again  ?  ' ' 

"  George  bothers  •the  Latin,  he  says,"  re- 
marked a  demure  boy  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  desk ;  now  I  think  it  is  the  Latin  that 
bothers  him." 

The  boys  laughed,  and  George  laughed  too  ; 
and  with  that  laugh  his  momentary  irritation 
left  him.  He  put  out  his  hand  for  the  of 
fending  book,  and — though  with  no  great  liking 
for  the  task — made  another  attempt  at  its 
translation. 

7 


5  GOLD    MAY   BE 

This  was  an  evening  scene.  The  following 
morning  presented  the  usual  appearance  of 
George  at  the  bottom  of  the  class,  or  very 
near  it ;  his  written  translation  blotted  with 
many  marks,  and  himself  listening  with  im- 
patience to  the  rebukes  of  his  patient  teacher. 

"  It  will  never  do,  George.  This  extreme 
carelessness  of  yours,  this  want  of  application, 
if  not  overcome,  will  be  a  plague  and  a  draw- 
back— yes,  and  a  disgrace  to  you  all  the  days 
of  your  life.  Go  to  your  desk,  sir,  and -correct 
these  egregious  blunders ;  a  mere  tyro  would 
be  ashamed  of  them." 

George  looked  ashamed, — not  of  his  careless- 
ness, perhaps,  but  of  being  lectured,  as  he 
afterwards  said  ; — and  obeyed. 

A  few  hours  afterward,  George  and  his  (at 
that  time)  favourite  companion  were  walking 
round  and  round  the.  playground,  over  which 
their  schoolfellows  were  scattered.  The  two 
boys  were  gravely  talking. 

"Well,  if  I  were  you — " 

"You  would  be  just  what  I  am,  and  do  just 
what  I  do." 

"  If  I  were  in  your  place  then,  George,  I 
would  pay  more  attention.  What  is  the  use  of 
your  being  such  an  idle  fellow  as  you  say  you 
are  ?  These  are  your  words  and  not  mine,  you 
know.  I  declare  I  was  ashamed  of  you  to-day, 
and  so  I  am  every  day.  Do  exert  yourself. 
You  can  if  you  will." 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  \) 

"I. tell  you,  Dick,"  replied  George,  with 
some  appearance  of  vexation,  "  that  I  am 
naturally  so  idle  that  nothing  can  rouse  me  ; 
and  besides,  if  I  could  exert  myself,  as  you 
wisely  counsel  me,  what  would  be  the  good  of 
it?" 

"  The  good  of  it !  Why,  for  one  thing,  you 
would  avoid  the  disgrace." 

"Not  worth  the  trouble,  Dick — decidedly 
not." 

"And  for  another  thing,"  continued  the 
wiser  boy,  "  you  would  be  fitter,  by  and  by, 
to — to — " 

"To  do  my  duty,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  in- 
terposed George. 

"  Just  so ;  at  least  it  is  near  enough  to  what 
I  was  going  to  say,"  replied  Dick. 

"Ah,"  said  the  other,  "this  is  all  very 
fine ;  but  how  is  all  this  stuff— Latin  now,  for 
instance — to  make  me  fitter?  as  you  say — you 
won't  find  such  a  word  in  Murray,  though,  I 
fancy ;  but  fitter  let  it  be,  if  you  like — to  do 
my  duty,  and  so  on?" 

"Mr.  Weston  says—" 

"  Yes,  yes, — I  know  what  Mr.  Weston  says 
about  Latin,  and  so  you  need  not  trouble 
yourself  to  repeat  it.  It  may  be  all  very  well 
for  him.  But  look  here,  when  I  leave  school, 
(and  the  time  is  not  far  off,  I  hope,)  of  what 
use  will  Latin  and  mathematics,  and  more 
than   half  of   the  other  stupid  things  we  are 


10  GOLD   MAY   BE 

bored  with  here — I  say,  of  what  use  will  they 
be  to  me?" 

"  You  don't  know  yet,  George." 

"  Yes  I  do :  they  will  be  of  no  use.  I  am 
to  live  with'  my  rich  old  uncle,  who  cares  as 
much  /«Jout  Latin  as  one  of  his  horses,  and 
not  much  more.  My  time  will  be  tak^n  up  in 
riding  about  the  farm  with  him,  or  without  him, 
looking  after  his  men,  and  things  of  that  sort. 
And  after  a  time  when  the  dear  old  uncle  is 
gone — not  that  I  shall  wish  him  dead ;  but  he 
is  old,  and  cannot  live  long — then  the  farm  is 
to  come  to  me,  with  plenty  of  money  into  the 
bargain,  and  I  shall  settle  down  into  a  country 
gentleman ;  my  mother  and  sister  will  live  with 
me,  and  won't  I  be  happy  then  ?  But  as  to 
the  Latin  and  all  this  school  nonsense,  it  really 
won't  be  of  any  use,  Dick,  and  it  is  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  cramming  my  head  with  it.  I 
wonder  my  mothSr  should  wish  me  to  become 
classical,  as  she  says.  Only  fancy  the  idea  of 
a  classical  farmer  !  If  I  had  to  work  my  way 
in  some  profession  or  other,  that  would  be  a 
different  thing,  eh  ?" 

Dick  did  not  carry  on  the  argument  which 
he  had  introduced.  He  was  but  a  boy,  though 
a  thoughtful  one  ;  and  he  did  not  know  how  to 
reply  to  his  friend's  long  vindication  of  himself, 
except  by  saying — 

"I  think,  George,  if  your  mother  wishes  it, 
that  ought  to  be  enough." 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  11 

And  surely  this  was  one  of  the  best  replies 
Dick  could  make. 

George  did  not  attempt  a  rejoinder,  but  went 
on  talking  on  a  subject  that  never  tired  him — 
his  great  expectations,  and  pleasant  dcipa- 
tions.  George's  mother  was  a  widow,  aii.i  far 
from  rich ;  but  she  had  a  kind,  old  and  rather 
eccentric  relative — the  same  uncle  of  whom 
George  was  frequently  making  a  boast — who 
was  rich,  very  rich,  most  of  his  acquaintance 
thought ;  and  he  had  placed  George  at  one 
school,  and  George's  sister  at  another.  During 
the  holidays  he  had  them  at  his  house,  and 
petted  them ;  he  promised  George  to  make  a 
farmer  and  a  man  of  him ;  to  leave  him  his 
farm — a  very  large  one — and  the  greater  part 
of  his  fortune  ;  and,  more  than  this,  he  nieant 
to  do  it.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that  George 
was  elated  with  his  prospects,  and  sometimes 
boasted  of  them  ;  neither  is  it  any  wonder  that 
he  was  often  thinking  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
time  when  he  should  be  rich,  and  was  building 
castles  in  the  air,  very  tall  and  grand,  when  he 
ought  to  have  been  working  out  a  sum  or  a  pro- 
blem, learning  a  lesson,  or  writing  an  exercise. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  me,  Dick,  when  I 
get  to  Willow  Grove  for  good,  and  when  you 
have  left  school.  You  shall  pay  me  a  long 
visit — I  know  uncle  will  like  to  have  you  there ; 
and  we  will  ride  and  fish  and  shoot  just  as  it 
suits  our  fancy.     Ah  !  a  wonderful  deal  better 


12  GOLD   MAY   BE 

that  will   be  than  this   stupid   school  work — 
won't  it  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  George,"  said  Dick ;  "  hut  I 
fancy  I  shall  not  he  able  to  do  that.  I  have 
no  rich  old  uncle,  you  know,  to  set  me  up  in 
the  world  as  you  have ;  and  as  soon  as  I  leave 
school  I  shall  have  to  work  at  something  or 
other — I  do  not  know  what ;  but  most  likely  I 
shall  have  to  be  an  apprentice;  and  then  there 
will  not  be  much  riding  and  fishing  and  shoot- 
ing for  me,  I  suspect:"  and  Dick  could  not 
help  heaving  a  little  sigh  as  he  spoke.  He 
half  envied  his  schoolfellow's  bright  prospects. 
"But  how  silly  it  is,"  he  continued,  "to  be 
worrying  one's  self  with  what  is  to  be  !  i  Suf- 
ficient unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,'  eh, 
George  ?  Come,  let  us  have  done  prosing,  and 
have  a  good  game.  See,  there  goes  Morris 
with  the  bats  and  ball,  and  they  can't  do  with- 
out us,  I  know;  so  come  along."  And  in  a 
few  minutes  the  boys  were  hard  at  play. 


"Go  to  now,"  says  the  Apostle  James,  "ye 
that  say,  To-day  or  to-morrow  we  will  go  into 
such  a  city,  and  continue  there  a  year,  and 
buy  and  sell,  and  get  gain:  whereas  ye  know 
not  what  shall  be  on  the  morrow.  For  what  is 
your  life  ?  It  is  even  a  vapour,  that  appeareth 
for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away. 
For  that  ye  ought  to  say,  If  the  Lord  will,  we 
shall  live,  and  do  this  or  that."  James  iv.  13-15. 


BOUGHT   TOO    DEAR.  13 

Schoolboys !  Let  the  truth  conveyed  by 
these  words  be  imprinted  on  your  memories. 
Take  the  lesson  home  to  your  hearts.  You 
have  need  to  be  reminded  that  the  bright 
hopes  of  this  world  may  suddenly  set  in  gloom 
and  storm.  You  have  need  to  prepare  yourself 
for  life's  uncertainties.  Your  thoughts  and 
boasts  are  often,  "My  mountain  stands  strong; 
I  shall  never  be  moved"  you  say;  and  you  lit- 
tle think  that  it  is  but  for  God  to  hide  his  face 
and  you  will  be  troubled. 

"George,"  said  his  tutor  to  him,  in  a  kind 
and  sympathizing  tone,  the  day  after  that  in 
which  he  had  boasted  to  his  friend  Dick  of  his 
pleasant  prospects  in  life, — "  George,  you  are 
to  return  home  to-day." 

"Home!  sir,"  the  boy  gasped,  rather  than 
spoke,  for  his  master's  tone  and  countenance 
alarmed  him.  "  Is  any  thing  the  matter,  sir?  " 
and  he  burst  into  tears. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  your  mother  just 
now — " 

"  She  is  well  then,  sir?    Oh,  I  was  afraid — " 

"  Your  mother  is  well ;  but  your  uncle — he 
is  gone,  George.  He  died  suddenly  yesterday ; 
and  your  mother  wishes  you  to  return  home 
for  a  few  days.  It  'is  quite  right.  You  have 
lost  a  dear  and  kind  friend,  George." 

"  Yes,  sir — oh  yes,  sir  !  What  shall  I  do  ? 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?     My  dear,*goocl  uncle  !" 

George  was  no  hypocrite.  He  really  had 
2 


14  GOLD   MAT  BE 

loved  his  uncle,  or  rather  his  mother's  uncle ; 
and  now  that  he  was  so  suddenly  made  ac- 
quainted with  his  death,  the  selfish  thought  of 
being  enriched  by  the  sad  event  probably  did 
not  for  a  single  moment,  at  that  time,  enter  his 
mind.  Sobbing  bitterly,  he  left  the  school-room, 
and  in  less  than  an  hour, — his  eyes  still  red 
with  weeping, — he  stepped  into  a  carriage,  and 
was  whirled  away  toward  his  home. 

Many  a  speculating  schoolfellow  did  the 
afflicted  boy  leave  behind  him,  to  wonder  how 
much  money  would  fall  to  George's  share,  and 
whether  he  would  go  at  once  to  live  at  Willow 
Grove ;  and  many  an  envious  sigh  was  but  half 
suppressed  when  these  conjectures  were  whis- 
pered from  one  to  another. 

Two  or  three  weeks  passed  away,  and  George 
returned  to  school.  He  was  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  and  he  was  pale  too,  and  seemed 
very  sad.  He  said  nothing  to  the  boys  about 
the  journey  he  had  made,  or  the  events  which 
had  taken  place  ;  and,  curious  as  they  were  to 
know  the  extent,  of  their  schoolfellow's  "  good 
fortune,"  as  they  termed  it,  they  were  too  shy 
to  put  the  question,  "How  much  money  did 
your  uncle  leave  you,  George?" 

But  though  they  did  not  find  out  this  secret, 
they  were  not  long  in  perceiving  a  most 
extraordinary  change  in  George.  He  became 
suddenly  studious.  All  his  old  habits  of  care- 
lessness and  unconcern  were  abandoned.     He 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  15 

• 
no   longer   subjected  himself  to  the  disgrace 

of  being  constantly  "lectured"  for  his  want 

of  application.     It  was   evident  that  he  could 

be  roused  to  diligence,  and  that  he  had  been 

thus  roused. 

This  was  not  the  only  alteration  which,  in 
this  short  time,  had  taken  place  in  the  boy. 
Formerly,  he  had  been  careless  in  his  expenses  ; 
the  small  stock  of  money  which,  after  every 
vacation,  he  had  brought  with  him  to  school, 
had  been  soon  exhausted ;  and  he  had,  more 
than  once,  incurred  rebuke  for  borrowing  from 
his  school-fellowS  for  some  unnecessary  expen- 
diture. Now,  he  began  to  keep  his  pockets  so 
closely  buttoned,  and  seemed  so  reluctant  to 
part  with  a  single  penny  from  his  re-filled 
purse,  that  he  ran  a  great  risk  of  being  set 
clown  as  a  miser. 

To  crown  a%,  George  became  so  reserved 
and  morose,  that,  after  a  few  attempts  on  the 
part  of  some  of  his  better-tempered  young 
friends  to  "  draw  him  out,"  as  they  said,  after 
his  old  fashion,  they  gave  up  in  despair,  de- 
claring among  themselves  that  it  was  useless  to 
try  to  please  him ;  and  that,  "if  he  had  lost  an 
old  uncle,  he  need  not  be  everlastingly  sulky 
and  cross,  as  if  that  would  do  any  good." 

"I  do  not  believe,"  said  one  of  the  boys, 
one  day,  "that  it  is  his  uncle's  death  makes 
him  so  queer  and  sulky.  No,  no ;  he  is  proud 
of  his  money, — depend  upon  it, — and  thinks 


16  GOLD    MAY   BE     . 

himself  above  us  all  because  he  is  well  off.  I 
have  no  patience  with  such  nonsense." 

And  no  sooner  had  this  new  idea  possessed 
the  minds  of  George's  school-fellows,  than  they 
began  to  show  in  many  ways  their  contempt 
of  this  pride  of  wealth  in  him.  Excepting 
Dick,  scarcely  one  cared  afterward  to  notice 
him  ;  and  even  he  was  far  less  friendly  than 
before.  Thus  the  bereaved  boy  was  solitary  as 
well  as  sad. 

But  this  seemed  very  little  to  move  him. 
He  plodded  on  doggedly  and  silently  with  his 
studies,  with  every  appearance  of  determina- 
tion to  make  up  for  the  time  he  had  lost.  And 
he  succeeded.  He  was  no  longer  in  constant 
disgrace,  but  often  excited  the  wondering  ap- 
proval of  his  master  by  his  strange  industry 
and  perseverance.  What  could  be  the  cause 
of  this  sudden  change,  and  wdftld  it  be  perma- 
nent ? 

Yes  ;  it  was  permanent.  The  holidays  came 
and  were  over,  and  George,  with  most  of  his 
school-fellows,  returned  to  school.  But  even 
during  the  holidays  the  boy  had  not  been  idle. 
While  the  others  had,  most  of  them,  laid  aside 
their  books,  and  forgotten  as  much  as  they 
could  of  what  they  previously  learned,  and 
thus  had  to  come  up  again  with  great  labour 
and  much  pains  to  the  point  at  which  they  had 
left  off,  George  had  toiled  on  and  reached  a 
position  which  he  had  never  before  attained. 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  17 

"You  astonish  me,  George,"  said  his  teacher, 
"by  your  determination  and  industry;  nay,  I 
am  not  sure  that  you  have  not  worked  too  hard. 
We  must  not  forget  that  the  bow  never  relaxed, 
will  snap.  Be  prudent,  my  boy,  as  well  as  dili- 
gent." 

George's  eye  twinkled  with  gratified  self-ap- 
probation, and  from  that  time  he  worked  on 
with  still  greater  ardour.  At  the  same  time, 
his  moroseness  in  part  wore  away,  and  he  again 
sought  companionship.  But  there  were  some 
subjects  of  conversation  on  which  he  main- 
tained a  stubborn  silence : — he  could  not  be  led. 
to  speak  of  his  late  uncle,  nor  of  Willow  Grove, 
nor  of  his  own  bright  hopes  for  the  future. 
There  were  signs,  too,  of  settled  unamiableness 
in  the  boy,  which  had  formerly  appeared.  In 
the  ardour  of,  competition,  he  took  ungenerous 
advantages  of  his  competitors ;  and  did  a  puz- 
zled school-fellow  need  assistance  in  preparing 
a  lesson,  it  was  not  of  George  that  he  sought  it. 

"You  won't  keep  that  place  long,"  said  he, 
with  a  disagreeable  smile,  one  day  when  return- 
ing to  his  desk,  to  a  class-mate  who  had  "taken 
him  down,"  and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  class. 

"Who  is  to  prevent  it?"  asked  the  other, 
good-humouredly. 

"  You  will  see,  by-and-by,"  retorted  George. 

Now,  at  that  time,  and  in  that  school,  there 
was  a  certain  sort  of  dress,  which  the  six  fore- 
most scholars  were  permitted  to  wear  over  their 
2* 


18  GOLD   MAY   BE 

other  garments  by  way  of  honourable  distinc- 
tion ;  and  very  dignified  and  scholastic  did  this 
dress  make  the  wearers  appear.  But  as  every 
privilege  has  its  duty,  so  was  it  binding  on  each 
to  wear  his  dress  in  the  class ;  and  as  laws  are 
useless  unless  accompanied  by  a  penalty  for 
disobedience,  it  was  ordained  that  a  breach  of 
this  law  should  subject  the  offender  to  an  igno- 
minious removal  to  the  bottom  of  any  class  of 
which  he  was  a  member. 
*  It  is  easy  to  make  laws,  but  not  always  plea- 
sant to  enforce  them.  Moreover,  sometimes 
honourable  distinctions  become  burcTensome ; 
and  privileges,  when  looked  upon  as  duties,  are 
neglected.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  dress 
was  more  often  laid  aside  than  worn  in  the 
class ;  and  the  penalty  for  disregarding  the 
standing  rule  had  not  for  many  a  long  day  been 
enforced.  Nevertheless,  the  law  remained  un- 
repealed. George's  class-mate  had  broken  it; 
and  George  became  an  informer. 

"  Since  I  am  appealed  to,"  said  the  kind  and 
wise  principal  of  the  school,  "I  must  enforce 
the  law,  William,  which  you  acknowledge  your- 
self to  have,  disobeyed.  You  will  have  to  work 
upward  from  the  bottom  of  each  class  to-mor- 
row. As  to  you,  George,  had  you  been  a  lit- 
tle more  generous,  I  should,  for  your  sake, 
have  been  glad.  It  is  possible,  my  boy,  to  be 
too  exact;  it  would  better  have  pleased  me  had 
you  suffered  your  teacher  to   overlook  or  to 


BOUGHT  TOO   DEAR.  19 

notice  the  offence,  as  he  might  see  fit ;  and 
even  now  it  shall  be  overlooked  if  you  wish  it, 
What  do  you  say?" 

George  said  nothing,  and  William  lost  his 
standing  in  the  classes.  He  afterward  lost  a 
prize  also,  which,  but  for  this  day's  misfortune, 
would  have  been  his ;  and  George  gained  it. 

"What  a  shame  it  was  of  you,  George!" 
remonstrated  some  of  his  school-fellows  a  few 
hours  afterward.     "  So  mean  !     So  shabby  !" 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  George.  "  I  had  a 
right  to  tell ;  and  if  you  ever  catch  me  without 
my  class-dress — " 

"When  you  have  got  one;" — "you  have 
not  got  one  yet,"  retorted  one  and  another  in 
ridicule. 

— "When  I  have  got  one,"  continued  George, 
calmly,  "you  may  inform  against  me,  and  wel- 
come." 

Another  vacation,  another  terft  time,  and 
George  was  nearly  at  the  head  of  the  school ; 
he  stood  second  only  to  Dick,  his  former  friend, 
and  the  only  school-fellow  with  whom  he  still 
held  much  intercourse.  He  had  overcome 
many  difficulties  by  perseverance  and  applica- 
tion. He  was  no  longer  the  "idle  fellow"  he 
had  once  boasted  himself  to  be.  But,  more 
unamiable  than  ever,  the  announcement  that 
this  was  his  "last  term"  excited  not  the  least 
regret. 


20  GOLD   MAY   BE 

It  was  a  busy  day,  and  an  exciting  one,  on 
which  the  various  marks  of  each  boy  were  cast 
up,  and  the  several  prizes  awarded.  Of  the 
twelve  to  be  given,  three  of  the  more  valu- 
able had  that  half  year  been  fairly  won  by 
George.  He  had  expected  a  fourth,  and  was 
mortified. 

"You  have  done  famously,  George,"  said 
Dick,  that  evening,  as  the  two  boys  took  their 
once  accustomed  walk  around  the  play-ground. 
Dick  was  in  good  spirits,  for  the  first  prize  (a 
pair  of  globes)  would  be  his.  "You  have 
done  famously,  George." 

"No, '  I  have  not,"  replied  George;  "I 
thought  I  should  have  had  the  sixth  prize  as 
well." 

"You  were  very  near  it;  and  if  you  were 
coming  back  next  term,  you  would  be  sure  of  it 
then,  and  the  first  prize,  too." 

"  Yes ;  what  is  the  good  of  telling  me  that, 
when  you  kffcow  I  am  not  coming  back?  'A 
miss  is  as  bad  as  a  mile,'  is  it  not  ?" 

"  In  your  case  it  is,  certainly,"  replied  Dick, 
laughing ;  "  however,  you  will  soon  be  able  to 
console  yourself  at  Willow  Grove  for  the  loss 
of  those  prizes — eh  ?" 

George  turned  quickly,  and  stared  fiercely 
at  his  friend;  then,  resuming  his  walk  and 
former  look,  and  without  replying  to  the  ques- 
tion, he  went  on — 

"It  is  very  provoking  to  lose   that   sixth 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  21 

prize.  I  might  have  had  it  if  I  had  worked  a 
little  harder." 

"  I  do  not  know  that,  George.  If  you  had 
worked  harder,  Parker  (the  successful  boy) 
might  have  worked  harder  too ;  and  so  you 
would  still  have  been  as  you  are.  And  besides," 
continued  Dick,  "I  really  think  that  three 
prizes  at  one  time  ought  to  satisfy  any  one. 
We  should  think  for  others  as  well  as  for  our- 
selves, you  know.  It  does  not  do  to  be  selfish, 
George." 

"  Oh !  as  to  that,  I  don't  believe  I  am  more 
selfish  than  you,  Dick.  I  suspect  you  would 
rather  have  your  prize  than  that  any  one  else 
should  have  it.  And  all  right,  too  ;  every  one 
for  himself,  /say.  '  Charity  begins  at  home,' 
you  know." 

"Ay,  but  we  have  been  told  that  it  should 
not  end  at  home:  and  there  is  something  in 
that,  I  think,"  replied  Dick,  gravely;  and  the 
boys  walked  on  a  few  steps  in  silence. 

It  was  broken  by  Dick.  "  George,"  said  he, 
"you  are  strangely  altered  since  we  first  knew 
each  other — three — ay,  nearly  four  years  ago." 

"Ami?"  asked  George.     "How?" 

"  Why,  you  used  to  be  so  merry  and  good- 
tempered,  and  now  you  have  become  so — 
so—" 

"So  what,  Dick?"  asked  George,  sharply. 

"So  dull' and  cross;  excuse  my  saying  so, 
George." 


99 


GOLD    MAY   BE 


"  Cross,  eh?  I  don't  know  that  I  am  cross, 
particularly.  As  to  being  dull,  perhaps  I  have 
reason  to  be.     Well,  is  that  all  ?" 

"No,  not  all,  certainly.  You  used  to  he 
idle,  and  to  make  a  sort  of  boast  of  it ;  and 
of  late  no  boy  in  the  school  has  worked  so  hard 
as  you  have." 

"No  harm  in  that,  at  any  rate,"  replied 
George. 

"  To  be  sure  not.  But  then  there  is  another 
thing,  if  you  won't  be  offended,  George." 

"  Oh  no — go  on;  let  me  know  my  faults. 
'Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend,'  says  the 
wise  man." — It  was  in  an  unpleasant,  sarcastic 
tone  that  George  said  this:  but  Dick  did  not 
choose  to  notice  the  tone. 

"Well,  then,  you  have  become  so  stingy  and 
covetous — at  least,  you  seem  to  be  so.  What 
can  be  the  cause  ?  I  should  have  thought  now, 
that  you,  of  all  others,  would  not  have  been  so 
sharp  after  one  single  prize,  and  so  vexed  at 
not  getting  it,  when  you  had  three  already ; 
that  is,  I  should  have  thought  so  of  you  once." 

"Oh!"  said  George,  coldly;  "any  thing 
else,  Dick  ?     Go  on,  if  there  is." 

"  No  ;  I  won't  say  any  more.  You  are  offend- 
ed now." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  the  strange-tempered  boy. 
"  Oh  no,  quite  the  contrary." 

Another  round  of  the  play-ground  in  silence, 
broken  this  time  by  George.     "I  am  altered, 


BOUGHT   TOO    DEAR.  23 

am  I  ?  Well;  I  suppose  I  am — in  some  things. 
There  may  be  a  reason  for  it,  too.  I'll  tell  you, 
Dick." 

Dick  listened,  and  George  went  on. 

"  You  know  very  well  how  I  used  to  brag 
about  my  rich  old  uncle,  and  Willow  Grove, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?" 

Dick  nodded  assent. 

"  Very  well;  and  you  know,  too,  that  he  died, 
and  when  ?" 

"Yes,"  Dick  said,  "he  remembered  this." 

"  I  have  never  mentioned  it  to  any  one,  and 
nobody  here  knows  it  except  our  teacher ;  but 
it  does  not  signify  who  knows  it  now  I  am  going 
to  leave.  When  uncle  died,  it  was  found  out 
that  the.  stupid  old — " 

"The  what!  George,"  exclaimed  Dick  in 
amazement.     "  0  George  !" 

"  Well,  well,  I  beg  his  pardon  and  yours ; 
but  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  uncle  had  not 
made  a  will.  He  was  always  talking  about  it, 
but  he  never  did  it.     You  can  guess  the  rest." 

"No  I  cannot,"  said  Dick;  "what  diffe- 
rence did  that  make  to  you?" 

"  What  difference  !  That  shows  how  much 
you  know  about  such  things.  What  difference, 
indeed !  Why,  instead  of  being  rich,  as  I 
always  thought  I  should  be,  I  am  just  little 
better  than  a  beggar."  As  the  boy  said  this, 
his  voice  became  husky  with  emotion,  and  his 
companion  pitied  him  from  his  heart. 


24  GOLD   MAY   BE 

"  Yes,  a  beggar  !  ^here  was  a  nearer  rela- 
tion than  my  mother  or  I— my  mother's  cousin ; 
and  all  the  property  went  to  him, — every  bit 
of  it." 

"  Well,  I  never  dreamed  of  that.  It  must 
have  been  a  disappointment.  I  feel  for  you, 
George." 

"  My  uncle's  heir  was  rich  enough  before," 
continued  he;   "but  that  did  not  signify. 

"  He  took  care  to  keep  fast  hold  of  Willow 
grove,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  here  I  am/' 

"  But  did  he  not  give  your  mother  and  you 
any  thing?" 

"Ah, — well, — I  cannot  say  that  exactly. 
He  was  very  gracious,  and  talked  very  fine ;  he 
pays  for  my  schooling  and  my  sister's,  as  old 
uncle  did ;  and  he  says  he  will  do  something 
for  us  when  we  leave  school,  and  so  forth." 

"That  is  kind  in  him,  is.  it  not?"  asked 
Dick.  "I  suppose  he  need  not  have  done 
this." 

"Kind !  I  don't  call  it  very  kind.  He  might 
have  kept  his  money  all  to  himself  for  what  I 
care.  And  I  would  not  have  taken  his  paltry 
gifts,  nor  come  back  to  school  again,  if  I  had 
had  my  will ;  but  my  mother  would  have  it  so." 

"  But  you  are  glad  you  did  come  back,  now, 
are  you  not?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  he  replied.  "At  first,  I  was 
determined  not  to  learn,  but  as  I  was  on  th* 
road,  I  altered  my  mind." 


EOUGfiT  TOO  DEAH.  25 

"All!" 

"Yes,  I  did;  I  thought  to  myself,  I  won't 
let  this  disappointment  beat  me.  I'll  do  my 
best,  and  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  get  the 
stuff  in  me  to  work  up  by  and  by ;  and  I'll 
take  care  of  number  one.  There,  now,  you 
know  it  all,  Dick.  No,  not  all;  I'll  tell  you 
something  more,"  he  continued,  in  a  low,  but 
determined  tone:  "Willow  Grove  shall  be  mine 
yet — that  is,  if  I  live,"  he  added.  "I'll  work 
and  scrape  and  save.  I'll  make  the  most  of 
my  cousin's  help  till  I  can  do  without  it  %-  and 

then well,  never  mind ;  I  know  what  I  have 

to  do,  and  I  will  do  it." 

Once  more  the  boys  walked  on  some  minutes 
in  silence ;  George  perhaps  pondering  over  his 
resolutions,  and  Dick  wondering  at  what  he  had 
heard,  and  feeling  uneasy,  though  he  scarcely 
knew  why,  at  the  glance  he  had  obtained  of  the 
workings  of  his  companion's  mind.  He  could 
not  distinctly  see,  or  seeing,  he  could  not  have 
put  into  words,  the  fact  that  mortified  pride 
and  avarice  had  cast  their  influence  over 
George's  better  feelings,  and  had  begun  to 
curdle  his  affections.  Industry  he  knew  was 
praiseworthy,  and  resoluteness  necessary  to 
success  in  life ;  but,  as  shown  by  his  friend, 
even  these  looked  repulsive,  if  not  absolutely^ 
bad.     He  turned  to  another  subject  for  relief. 

"What  books  will  you  choose,  George,  for 
your  three  prizes?" 


26  GOLD    MAY   BE 

"I  don't  know,  yet.  I  do  not  know  that  I 
shall  have  books  at  all." 

"  What !     Not  have  books  ?     What  then  ?" 

"I  have  books  enough,"  said  George.  "I 
shall  not  want  books.     I  say,  Dick — " 

"Well?"  replied  Dick,  perceiving  that  his 
companion  hesitated. 

"  Look  here :  my  three  prizes,  you  know, 
come  to  just  twenty-five  dollars." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Dick,  gravely;  "yes7 
altogether ;  that  is,  twenty-five  dollars'  worth 
of  books,  you  know :  any  books  you  like — that 
is,  again,  if  your  choice  is  approved  by  the 
higher  powers." 

"Just  so,"  said  George.  "Well,  now,  what 
difference  would  it  make  to  Mr.  D ,  suppos- 
ing I  were  to  have  the  money  instead  of  the 
books  ?" 

".George !"  exclaimed  his  amazed  companion ; 
"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing — never  !"v 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  George,  coldly;  "but 
I  don't  see,  for  all  that — " 

"  How  could  such  a  thought  have  entered 
your  head,  George  ?  Why,  I  would  not  take 
double  the  value  in  money  instead  of  my  prize : 
you  must  be  joking." 

"  Joking  !  Not  at  all.  I  heard  a  man  say, 
once,  that  joking  is  the  most  foolish  thing  on 
earth  ;  one  gets  nothing  by  it.  There  is  good 
sense  in  that;  and  I  have  given  up  joking  ever 
since  I  heard  it.     No,  no :  I  am  serious.     And 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  27 

as.  to  what  you  would  do,  or  not  do,  that  is  not 
the  question.  I  tell  you,  that  twenty-five  dol- 
lars in  money  will  be  a  great  deal  better  to  me 
than  twenty-five  dollars'  worth  of  musty  books ; 
and  what  will  it  signify  to  anybody  else  ?  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  ask  the  master.  I  will, 
too.     Why  not?" 

"What  have  you  to  ask  the  master,  George?" 
was  echoed  by  a  pleasant  0voice  near  them. 
The  boys  knew  it  to  be  the  voice  of  their  tutor. 
They  were  just  then  close  by  a  thick  hedge 
which  formed  one  of  the  boundaries  of  the  play- 
ground, and  separated  it  from  the  master's 
garden.  ■  j 

"  Come  in,  my  boys,"  he  continued,  unlock- 
ing a  gate  a  little  farther  on,  "  and  let  me 
know  what  you  have  to  ask.  I  have  not  been 
listening,"  he  added,  "and  I  really  do  not 
know  what  you  have  been  saying ;  but  I  could 
not  help  accidentally  hearing  your  last  words, 
George.  And  if,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "your 
request  should  be  as  reasonable  as  I  hope  it 
may  be,  it  shall  be  gratified.  Come  in,  and  let 
us  talk  together  as  friends." 

The  two  boys  were  rather  confused,  but  they 
accepted  the  invitation. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer's  evening,  and  the 

garden  was  in  fine  order.    Mr.  D was  fond 

of  flowers,  and  before  he  resumed  his  inquiry 
he  turned  into  a  side-path  to  show  his  scholars 


28  GOLD   MAY   BE 

a  new  variety  of  some  favourite  seedling  which 
he  himself  had  raised. 

"  And  now  for  your  wish,  George ;  what  is 
it?" 

George,  thus  taken  unawares,  found  more 
difficulty  in  expressing  his  wish  than  he  had 
anticipated.  He  looked  somewhat  foolish,  in 
fact,  and  stammered  out  that  it  was  of  no  con- 
sequence. #  • 

"  Nay,"  said  his  tutor,  "  but  you  need  not  be 
afraid  to  mention  it;  you  are  not  ashamed  of  it, 
I  hope.  Your  young  friend  shall  put  it  into 
words  for  you,  if  you  please.    What  is  it,  Dick?" 

Dick  looked  at  George.  George  nodded,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Yes,  speak  for  me." 

"  George  was  saying,  sir,"  replied  Dick — 
"  it  was  about  the  prizes,  sir — his  prizes  ;  and 
he  was  saying  that  books  will  not  be  of  much 
use  to  him,  he  thinks." 

"  Eh  ?    His  is  a  peculiar  case,  then.    Well  ?" 

"And  so,  sir,  if  you  would  not  mind,  he  would 

rather  have "  and  Dick  made  an. awkward 

stop. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Mr.  D ,  encou- 
ragingly. "He  would  rather  have  some  philo- 
sophical apparatus,  perhaps — an  air  pump,  or 
an  electrical  machine,  or  a  galvanic  trough  ? 
If  so,  I  will  make  no  objection,  though  I  am 
not  sure  that  books  would  not  be  more  useful." 

"  No,  sir ;    that  was  not  it.     George  wishes 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAE.  29 

to  have,  or  that  he  might  have,  the  money 
that  the  books  would  cost, — instead  of  the 
books." 

"Whew  I"  said,  (or  rather  breathed)  the  tutor, 
in  surprise ;  and  then  turning  to  George  with  a 
very  grave  countenance,  asked,  "  Has  Dick 
rightly  explained  your  wish  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  George,  faintly. 

Up  the  path  walked  Mr.  D slowly  and 

silently,  and  as  slowly  and  silently  did  he  come 
down  again. 

"You  have  made  a  mess  of  it,"  whispered 
Dick  to  his  companion. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  have,"  rejoined  George  in 
the  same  under-breath,  but  with  lips  that 
quivered  a  little.  "I  cannot  see  why  there 
should  be  any  difficulty  about  it." 

"I  wish  I  was  out  of  it,  at  all  events,"  said 
Dick. 

"  My  boys,"  said   Mr.  D ,  as  he   came 

again  to  the  place  in  which  he  had  left  them 
standing,  "I  can  conceive  of  such  a  request, 
under  some  circumstances,  being  not  only 
reasonable,  but  praiseworthy.  Perhaps  it  may 
be  so  in  your  case,  George;  and  if  there  be 
any  good  reason  for  the  exchange,  it  shall  be 
made,  though  it  will  be  a  bad  precedent.  Come, 
then,  tell  me  why  you  wish  for  the  money 
rather  than  the  books." 

••  It  will  be  of  more  use  to  me,  sir." 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  that,  George.  That 
3* 


30  GOLD   MAY  BE 

must  depend  on  the  use  to  which  it  is  put.  You 
will  not,  therefore,  think  me  unreasonable  if  I 
ask  what  immediate  and  important  purpose  you 
have  in  view  for  this  money  ?" 

George  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that 
he  had  none. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  understand  you,  then,"   said 

Mr.  D ,   after  many  other  questions    and 

replies,  which  need  not  be  repeated — and  he 
spoke  seriously  and  somewhat  sadly — "  I  think 
I  understand  you  to  mean  that  you  value 
money,  not  for  the  proper  uses  to  which  it  may 
be  put,  but  for  its  own  sake.  You  wish  to  be 
rich ;  you  mean — if  God  will  permit  it — to  be 
rich ;  and  you  would  like  to  have  this  certain 
sum,  twenty-five  dollars,  to  lay  as  a  foundation 
for  future  accumulations.     Am  I  right  ?" 

Yes,  so  far  right  that  George  did  not  dissent 
from  the  way  of  putting  the  case. 

"  You  have  been  disappointed  in  your  early 
hopes  and  prospects  ;  your  young  friend  here, — 
— is  he  aware  of  this  ? 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  have  told  him  all  about  it." 

"  Then  I  may  speak  freely  before  him.  I 
feel  for  you,  George.  I  have  felt  very  much 
for  you.  At  first  I  hoped  the  disappointment 
had  done  you  good,  in  stirring  you  up  to  dili- 
gence and  self-dependence.  It  is  well  for  a 
young  man  to  feel  that,  for  his  success  in  life ; 
he  must  put  forth  the  energies  which  he  has  at 
his  command,  and  use  the  talents  which  God  has 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  31 

given  him.      Great  expectations  from  others 
have  too  often  an  injurious  effect  upon  us." 

"  And  I  have  worked  hard,  sir,  since  then," 
George  replied. 

"  I  gladly  bear  witness  to  this ;  and  I  trust 
that,  after  all,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  in  the 
result.  But  the  result  will  be  disappointment, 
my  young  friend,  if  the  attainment  of  wealth 
should  unhappily  be  the  only  or  principal  object 
of  your  diligence, — the  end  to  which  all  your 
acquisitions  of  knowledge  are  to  be  the  means. 
6  A  man's  life,'  my  boys,  '  consisteth  not  in  the 
abundance  of  the  things  which  he  possesseth.' 
These  are  the  words  of  Him  who  was,  in  him- 
self, wisdom  and  truth.  Do  not  disregard 
them,  I  pray  you." 

"  But  money  is  useful,  sir,"  interposed  Dick, 
(who  wished  to  shield  his  friend  from  the  im- 
putation of  covetousness  ;)  "  is  it  not,  sir?"  he 
asked. 

"  Useful  ?  Yes,  Dick,  rightly  employed.  It 
is  useful  when  we  exchange  it  for  bread,  pota-* 
toes,  or  meat ;  coats,  hats,  or  shoes,  with  com- 
mon necessaries  of  a  like  nature.  It  is  useful 
when  it  pays  rent,  taxes,  and  service,  or  when 
it  provides  us  with  fuel.  It  is  useful,  too,  in  a 
higher  degree,  when  it  supplies  our  intellectual 
requirements  ;  in  a  still  higher  degree,  when  it 
enables  its  possessor  to  do  good  to  all  men ; 
and  in  the  highest  degree  of  all,  when  employed 
for  the  glory  of  its  great  Giver.     But  money 


32  GOLD   MAY   BE 

in  itself,  Dick,  is  useless!  We  can  neither  eat 
it,  nor  drink  it ;  it  will  neither  clothe  us,  nor 
warm  us,  nor  defend  us.  Nay,  it  is  often  worse 
than  useless ;  it  is  positively  and  fearfully  in- 
jurious. When  it  panders  to  our  evil  passions, 
and  purchases  for  us  unhallowed  enjoyments  ; 
or  when  its  possession  becomes  a  predominant 
desire,  and  we  make  it  our  god — sacrificing  to  it 
health,  integrity,  talent,  and  soul — then  money 
becomes  a  fearful  curse.  '  The  love  of  money,' 
my  young  friends,  '  is  the  root  of  all  evil' — so 
says  the  apostle ;  '. which,'  he  adds,  '  while  some 
coveted  after,  they  have  erred  from  the  faith, 
and  pierced  themselves  through  with  many  sor- 
rows.' It  is  very  sad  when  this  happens,  is  it 
not  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Dick;  "but  people  who 
are  rich  do  not  always  love  their  money  like 
that;  do  they,  sir  ?" 

"  Oh  no;  there  are  those  who  are  'rich  in 
faith,'  as  well  as  rich  in  wealth.  But  some  do  ; 
and  let  me  tell  you  that  those  who  have  riches 
have  many  temptations,  and  that  the  love  of 
money  is  a  growing  and  greedy  affection — 
never  satisfied.  I  was  told,  the  other  day,  of 
a  gentlemen  who  had  a  large  sum  of  money 
left  him.  Before  this  he  was  generous  and 
happy  ;  afterward  he  became  both  miserly  and 
miserable.  Can  you  guess  why?  I  daresay 
not.  I  will  tell  you.  He  found  out  that,  what 
with  his  recently  acquired  property  and  what 


BOUGHT  TOO   DEAR.  33 

he  had  before,  lie  was  worth,  as  he  said,  only 
four  hundred  thousand  dollars ;  and  he  wished 
to  be  worth  five  hundred  thousand.  So,  to  at- 
tain this  object,  he  began  to  deny  himself  much 
that  he  might  have  enjoyed,  and  to  keep  back 
from  all  means  of  doing  good  with  his  wealth. 
;He  could  no  longer  afford  to  be  liberal,'  he 
said." 

George  sighed,  as  he  heard  this  story. 

"  Why  that  sigh,  George  ?"  asked  his  tutor. 

"  Five  hundred  thousand  dollars  is  a  great* 
deal  of  money,  sir.    If  I  had  but  fifty  thousand, 
I  would  not  want  to  be  richer." 

"You  think  so,  George,  but  probably  you 
are  mistaken.  However,  this  poor  man  of 
whom  I  was  telling  you — he  died  miserably, 
and  confessed  at  last,  what  multitudes  besides 
have  found  to  their  cost,  that  6  Gold  may  be 
bought  too  dear.'  " 

"And  now,  George,  to  come  back  to  your 
request :  I  cannot  grant  it.  You  do  not  really 
need  the  money.  Your  relative's  intentions 
toward  you  are  liberal ;  and  after  you  leave 
school  you  will  be  placed  in  a  situation  in 
which  your  talents  and  education,  combined 
with  industry  and  honesty,  will  make  honour- 
able way  for  you.  Your  necessary  wants  will 
be  supplied,  and  the  twenty-five  dollars  which 
you  covet  would  either  be  needlessly  spent  or 
selfishly  hoarded.  I  trust  you  will  succeed  in 
life  ;  and  if  you  should  become  rich,  I  trust, 


84  GOLD   MAY   BE 

also,  you  will  be  kept  from  the  snares  of  wealth. 
But  remember,  George — remember,  both  of  you, 
— that  even  '  gold  may  be  bought  too  clear' — too 
clear,  if  obtained  at  the  cost  of  health,  or  hap- 
piness, or  honour,  or  usefulness  ;  and,  if  taken 
in  exchange  for  eternal  life,  too  dear,  infi- 
nitely TOO  DEAR." 

George  left  the  garden  dissatisfied  and 
angry.  "  I  don't  care,"  said  he  to  his  com- 
panion, when  they  were  once  more  by  them- 
selves. "  It  is  all  very  fine  to  talk  about  such 
things,  especially  when  one  has  all  the  talk  to 
one's  self,  and  must  not  be  answered.  So,  [  gold 
may  be  bought  too  dear,'  may  it?  Of  course 
it  may ;  but  it  may  be  bought  cheap,  too,  if  one 
goes  to  the  right  market  for  it.  Well,  well ; 
we  shall  see." 

Some  years  ago,  a  middle-aged  person  lived 
at  Willow  Grove.  This  was  our  old  school- 
fellow, George.  Willow  Grove  was  his:  he 
had  purchased  it  of  a  son  of  his  uncle's  heir. 
He  was  said  to  be  very  rich,  as  well  as  very 
miserable  ;  and  these  are  the  outlines  of  his 
history,  as  you  might  have  heard  them  from 
the  lips  of  an  aged  man,  his  near  neighbour  : — 

"  Yes,  sir ;  that  is  George,  as  we  used 
to  call  him  when  the  old  gentleman,  his 
mother's  uncle,  was  alive;  and  when  the  boy, 
as  he  was  then,  came  backward  and  forward 
from    his    mother's  as   he  pleased,  and  spent 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  35 

most  of  his  holiday  time  at  Willow  Grove.  He 
was  an  open,  kind-hearted  boy  then,  full  of  fun  ; 
but  he  did  not  like  work,  they  said,  and  he 
said  so,  too.  But  he  made  sure  of  his  uncle's 
estate,  and  so  it  was  thought  not  to  signify 
greatly. 

"But  '  there's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup 
and  the  lip' — an  old  proverb,  sir,  but  a  true 
one  ;  and  master  George  found  it  out  by  expe- 
rience. Ah,  you  should  have  seen  the  way  he 
was  in  when  it  was  found  that  the  old  squire 
had  died  without  making  a  will,  and  that  all 
the  property  went  to  the  next  heir,  master 
George's  cousin,  or,  more  properly,  his  mother's- 
cousin.  However,  there  was  no  help  for  it ; 
'and  the  new  comer  was  a  straightforward;, 
honourable  man.  He  did  not  give  up  his  rights, 
of  course ;  but  he  behaved  handsomely  to 
George's  mother,  and  promised  to  start  George 
and  his  sister  comfortably  in  the  world,  and  to 
go  on  bearing  their  school  expenses,  as  his 
uncle  had  done. 

"Yes,  sir,  George  went  to  school  again  ;  and 
when  he  came  home  for  the  holidays,  everybody 
noticed  what  a  difference  there  was  in  him.  He 
had  lost  all  his  fun,  and  had  turned  out  to  be 
what  they  call  '  a  hard  student.'  His  mother 
was  pleased  with  this,  and  so  was  their  cousin  : 
but  his  altered  manners — these  did  not  please 
them  so  well ;  they  had  become  so  gloomy  and 
cold. 


GOLD   MAY  BE 


u 


Well,  sir,  after  a  year  or  two,  master 
George  left  school  and  went  to  the  city ;  and 
we  saw  nothing  more  of  him  for  a  long  time, 
only  about  once  a  year  he  used  to  come  to  these 
parts  for  a  few  days  to  see  his  mother  and  sis- 
ter ;  but  at  last  he  left  this  off.  We  heard  a 
little  about  him,  though,  at  times,  through  his 
mother — an  old  friend  of  mine,  sir,  and  a 
Christian  woman,  one  of  the  right  sort,  sir. 
She  used  to  grieve  sorely  sometimes  about 
George ;  not  that  he  turned  out  badly  altoge- 
ther ;  he  was  not  profligate,  nor  idle,  but  he 
seemed,  she  said,  to  have  lost  his  former  affec- 
tion, and  shut  up  his  heart,  as  one  may  say, 
against  the  best  things :  he  was  all  for  money- 
getting  ;  up  early  and  late  at  his  business, 
whatever  that  might  be — and  I  do  not.  remem- 
ber now  what  it  was,  nor  does  it  signify- — but 
he  was  never  satisfied. 

"Time  went  on,  sir,  and  George  became  a 
man ;  he  had  served  out  his  time,  and  came 
home  a  few  weeks.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him 
then ;  he  often  called  in  to  see  me.  But  all  his 
talk  was  about  money,  and  what  he  would  do 
when  he  got  rich ;  how  Willow  Grove  should 
be  his,  after  all. 

I  talked  a  little  to  him,  sir,  in  my  way,  and 
told  him  that  money  was  not  every  thing.  He 
laughed  at  me,  and  said  I  put  in  him  mind  of 
a  saying  of  his  old  school-master,  that  '  Gold 
may  be  bought  too  dear.'     'And  so  it  may, 


BOUGHT   TOO   DEAR.  37 

master  George,'  I  said:  but  lie  did  not  seem  to 
think  so  then ;  and  what  he  thinks  now  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  I  told  him,  that  c  wis- 
dom is  the  principal  thing;'  but  he  pretended 
not  to  understand  me.  My  heart  ached  for 
him,  for  it  was  plain  that  he  was  set  upon 
being  rich;  nothing  else  would  go  down  with 
him. 

"He  went  back  to  the  city;  and  his  cousin 
acted  nobly  in  setting  him  up  in  business ;  and 
we  heard,  from  time  to  time,  that  he  was  doing; 
well  as  regards  money-getting,  that  he  was 
very  selfish  in  business,  and  very  diligent,  and 
that  every  thing  he  took  in  hand  prospered ; 
and  nothing  more  was  heard  of  him,  good  or 
bad,  until, — perhaps  it  may  be  ten  years  ago, 
— when  his  cousin  at  Willow  Grove  died,  and 
George's  mother  and  sister  lost  their  chief  sup- 
port. 

"Ah,  sir,  that  was  a  trial  of  principle. 
There  were  several  to  come  in  for  shares  of 
the  property — the  childi^n,  you  understand, 
of  this  cousin ;  and  they  said  that  as  George 
was  now  well  able  to  support  his  mother  and 
sister,  they  did  not  see  why  they  should  con- 
tinue the  annuity.  But  George  thought  diffe- 
rently, and  refused — would  you  believe  it  ? — 
he  refused  to  do  any  thing  for  his  aged  mother, 
or  for  his  sister !  He  could  not  afford  it,  he 
said.  Sir,  his  mother  did  not  ask  him  twice — 
not  that  she  was  grieved ; '  she  knew  the  excuse 
4 


38  GOLD   MAY  BIT 

was  a  bad  one,  sir.  From  that  time,  she  and 
her  daughter  struggled*  on,  until  the  young  wo- 
man was  married  to  a  man  who  knew  her  worth, 
and  who  afterward  took  care  that  the  aged 
Christian  should  not  know  want. 

"  It  was  not  long  after  this,  that  news  came 
of  George's  marriage.  He  had  waited  long, 
for  he  seemed  to  fear  that  the  expenses  of  mar- 
ried life  would  keep  him  from  his  darling  ob- 
ject. '  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  think  about 
marrying,  was  what  he  had  always  said.  At  last^ 
however,  as  I  was  saying,  he  did  marry.  He 
married  a  woman  with  a  fortune ;  a  woman  for 
whom,  by  all  accounts,  he  never  had  the  least 
love ;  but  she  had  money,  and  that  was  enough 
for  him. 

"  It  was  soon  after  this,  that  George  came 
down  here,  where  he  had  not  been  for  many 
long  years.  He  looked  old  then, — very  old 
and  careworn,  and  melancholy.  It  was  plain 
that  he  had  parted  with  health  for  gold  in  the 
•way  of  business,  and  it  was  almost  as  plain 
that  he  had  parted  with  happiness  for  gold  in 
the  way  of  marriage.  This  was  buying  gold 
pretty  dear,  I  think. 

"  Well,  he  came  to  look  after  the  Willow 
Grove  estate,  which  he  was  determined  to  have 
if  money  would  buy  it.  And  money  did  buy 
it.  So  he  went  back  to  the  city,  gave  up  busi- 
ness, and  brought  down  his  wife.  It  was  soon 
seen  how  little  comfort  poor  George  had  got 


BOU-GHT  TTOO   DEAR.  -'39 

with  all  his  money.  His  wife  had  a  sacl  tem- 
per, and  was  very  proud.  His  own  mother 
and  sister  were,  so  to  speak,  banished  from  his 
house  ;  for  he  dared  not  invite  them  to  see  him, 
had  he  wished  it : — and  I  believe  he  did  wish 
it,  so  long  as  they  did  not  coaie  to  him  for 
money ;  and  this  they  had  no  need  to  do.  But, 
wish  it  or  not,  they  were  soon  given  to  under- 
stand that  they  must  be  strangers  at  Willow 
Grove. 

"  It  was  a  bad  day  for  the  tenants  when  the 
estate  fell  into  George's  hands.  He  began  at 
once  to  raise  their  rents,  and  to  make  them  feel 
in  other  ways  the  difference  between  a  conside- 
rate landlord  and  a  hard  one.  His  workmen 
dread  him — 1^  is  so  harsh  and  unfeeling ;  and 
he  is  shunned  by  all  the  neighbourhood  as  a 
man  who  has  no  kindly  feelings,  no  affection 
for-  any  thing  but  gold. 

"Not  that  George  is  a  miser,  as  some  people 
are  miserly.  He  lives  within  his  income,  they 
say;  but  he  has  the  good  things  of  this  world: 
though  as  to  enjoying  them,  he  seems  past  that 
now.  If  he  has  any  pleasure,  it  is  in  scheming 
to  get  richer ;  for  he  is  not  yet  satisfied  with 
what  he  has,  though  he  counts  his  property  by 
tens  of  thousands.  As  to  doing  good  with  his 
money,  you  may  judge  that  this  is  far  from  his 
thoughts — indeed  it  is ;  he  lives  to  himself. 

"The  worst  of  all  is,  that  poor  George  seems 
dead  to  religion.     The  gold  has   entered  his 


40  GOLD   MAY   BE 

soul.  He  knows  better — his  understanding  is 
informed;  he  was  early  trained  in  the  way  of 
piety;  one  of  the  first  books  he  ever  read  was 
the  Bible,  and  he  is  acquainted  with  the  gospel 
of  salvation.  But,  his  heart  appears  hardened 
against  it,  and  he  is  angry  at  the  very  mention 
of  it. 

"  George's  mother  died  some  few  months  ago, 
after  suffering  deep  distress  of  mind. on  account 
of  her  son.  She  saw  him,  at  last,  as  she  lay 
dying.  What  passed  in  that  sad  and  solemn 
interview  was  not  known ;  but  it  did  seem  to 
take  some  little  hold  upon  him.  Ah  !  if  he 
should  be  brought,  at  last,  to  consider  those 
solemn  words  of  our  Saviour,  'What  is  a  man 
profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  his  own  soul  ?'  and  should  he  give  up  his  love 
of  gold  for  the  love  of  Christ — what  a  mercy 
would  that  be  !  And  it  is  possible  :  yes,  it  is ; 
for  with  God,  you  know,  nothing  is  impossible : 
but  '  it  is  hard  for  them  that  trust  in  riches  to 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God.'  " 


So  then  it  seems  that  our  old  school-fellow 
had  parted  with  domestic  enjoyments,  family 
affection,  health,  the  high  satisfaction  of  being 
useful,  and  was,  at  least,  running  a  fearful  risk 
of  parting  at  last  with  eternal  blessedness 
for  the  lust  of  wTealth.  Was  not  this  a  hard 
bargain  ?  And  may  .not  gold  be  bought  too 
dear? 


BOUGHT  TOO   DEAK.  41 

Young  reader,  even  while  these  pages  are 
being  written,  the  cry  of  "  Gold  !  gold  !  more 
gold!"  is  heard;  and  thousands  have  flocked 
and  are  still  flocking  to  the  gold  diggings  of 
California  and  Australia.  We  do  not  say  that 
this  is  wrong — in  itself  wrong ;  for  gold  is  one 
of  God's  good  gifts  to  men,  if  men  will  use  it 
rightly :  but  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters,  and 
even  pure  gold  may  be  bought  too  dear.  How 
many  a  poor^  despairing  wretch,  perishing  with 
hunger,  thirst,  and  mortal  sickness,  and  desert- 
ed by  selfish  companions  in  these  gold-abound- 
ing regions,  has  bewailed  his  folly  in  leaving 
home  and  all  its  comforts,  that  he  might  join 
in  the  scramble  for  wealth,  and  "make  haste 
to  be  rich!"  And  what  .heaps  of  gold  would 
such  a  one  give,  had  he  them  to  give,  could  he 
be  restored  to  his  lost  happiness,  while  he  ac- 
knowledges that  "  Gold  may  be  bought  too 
dear."  But  without  going  to  Australia,  or 
California,  or  elsewhere,  and  in  the  common 
walks  of  life,  we  may  meet  with  many  who, 
like  our  old  school-fellow  George,  have  been 
willing  to  barter  every  thing  for  gold,  and  find 
out  their  mistake  when  it  is  too  late. 

But  what  are  we  to  think  of  those  who  are 
willing  to  part, with  Heaven  for  gold? 

Dear  young  readers — school-boys  now,  as  we 

were  sehool-boys  once — remember  the  Saviour's 

words,  in  the  parable  which  he  spoke  when  he 

said,  "  The  ground  of  a  certain  rjch  man  brought 

4* 


42  GOLD   MAY   BE 

forth  plentifully :  and  he  thought  within  him- 
self, saying,  What  shall  I  do,  because  I  have 
no  room  where  to  bestow  my  fruits  ?  And  he 
said,  This  will  I  do  :  I  will  pull  down  my  barns, 
and  build  greater ;  and  there  will  I  bestow  all 
my  fruits  and  my  goods.  And  I  will  say  to 
my  soul,  Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid  up 
for  many  years ;  take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry.  But  God  said  unto  him,  Thou 
fool,  this  night  thy  soul  shall  be  required  of 
thee :  then  whose  shall  those  things  be,  which 
thou  hast  provided  ?  So  is  he  that  layeth  up 
treasure  for  himself,  and  is  not  rich  toward 
God."  Luke  xii.  16-21. 

"What,  then,"  do  you  say,  "  are  we  not  to 
try  to  get  money  ? — Not  to  be  industrious,  fru- 
gal, persevering  ?" 

If  we  were  to  say  so,  we  should  say  what  is 
very  foolish  and  false.  On  the  contrary,  be 
industrious,  be  frugal,  be  persevering ;  and  if 
industry,  frugality,  and  perseverance,  with  in- 
tegrity added  to  them,  get  you  money — then 
get  money. 

But  take  care  what  it  costs  you  besides ; 
beware  of  covetousness ;  and  "seek  first  the 
kingdom  of  God,  and  his  righteousness."  Do 
not  neglect  your  soul  for  your  body;  nor  part 
with  the  hope  of  heaven  for  the  love  of  wealth ; 
nor  lay  up  treasure  for  yourself,  instead  of 
being  rich  toward*  God ;  nor  set  your  affec- 
tions on  earthjy  riches,  despising  those  which 


BOUGHT   TOO    DEAE.  48 

are  heavenly ;  for  if  you  do,  you  will  find  that 
you  have  bought  your  gold  too  dear. 

There  is  a  treasure  which  you  cannot  buy 
too  dear.  He,  who  though  he  was  rich,  yet 
for  ourselves  became  poor,  that  we  poor  and 
guilty  and  lost  might  be  made  rich,  offers  par- 
don and  peace  and  eternal  life  to  all  who,  on 
his  terms,  will  accept  them. 

Here  is  mercy  and  love !  Yes ;  "  God  so 
loved  the  world,  that  he  gave  his  only  begotten 
Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in  him  should 
not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life."  That 
mercy  you  need :'  for  without  it,  you  will  be  ever- 
lastingly undone.  Seek  it,  and  by  the  aid  of 
God's  Holy  Spirit,  seeking  it  so  as  to  obtain  it, 
you  will  feel  compassion  for  those  whose  only 
treasure  is  on  earth ;  and  this  will  be  the  thought 
of  your  heart — 

"  Go  now,  and  boast  of  all  your  stores, 
And  tell  how  bright  they  shine  : 
Tour  heaps  of  glittering  dust  are  yours, 
And  my  Redeemer's  mine." 


II. 


THE  YOUNG  CUMBRIAN. 

Of  all  school-boys  whom  we  ever  knew,  poor 
little  Tom  Smith  was  as  unlikely  as  any  to  be- 
come the  hero  of  a  story.  His  name,  his  look, 
his  manners,  all  might  seem  to  forbid  the 
thought.  Ah !  but  there  are  many  brave,  noble, 
kind,  and  generous  hearts  under  the  plainest 
forms  and  commonest  names ;  and  Tom  Smith, 
— our  Tom  Smith, — was  one  of  them. 

He  was  about  eight  years  old  when  he  made 
his  first  appearance  at  school,  and  his  counte- 
nance, at  first  sight,  was  far  from  interesting. 
He  was  thin,  pale,  and  stooping,  so  as  to  look 
almost  deformed;  and  all  his  movements  were 
awkward.  When  he  spoke,  he  excited  the 
laughter  of  his  school-fellows — that  is  to  say, 
of  many  of  them ;  some  had  better  manners 
than  to  laugh  outright,  though  they  were 
amused.  His  birth-place  was  in  one  of  the 
northern  counties  of  England,  and  he  brought 
with  him  to  school  the  peculiar  dialect  of  home. 
Those  who  laughed  did  not  remember  that,  had 
the  case  been  reversed,  and  had  they  been  sent 
to  Northumberland,  or  Cumberland,  or  Dur- 
44 


THE  YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  45 

ham,  their  speech  too  would  there  have  sounded 
oddly  enough. 

Then  poor  little  Tom — for  by  that  somewhat 
vulgar  diminutive  was  he  always  called — was  a 
perfect  ignoramus.  He  had  never  been  to 
school,  and  could  scarcely  spell  out  a-  sentence 
composed  of  words  of  two  syllables.  In  the  use 
of  pen  or  pencil  he  was  as  inexperienced  and 
inexpert  as  an  infant.  Worse  than  this,  it  was 
soon  found  that,  at  that  time,  he  had  no  great 
love  for  learning.  He  seemed  dull  of  compre- 
hension, and  hated  tasks  as  much  as  he  could 
hate  any  thing.  '  The  confinement  of  school 
was,  at  first,  dreadful  to  him.  He  was  restless 
as  a  wild  bird  newly  caught  and  caged,  and 
fretted  sorely  over  the  necessary  constraint  he 
had  to  endure.  Ah !  few  school-books  were 
ever  more  blotted  and  blurred  with  bitter  tears 
than  poor  little  Tom  Smith's. 

And  in  play  hours  it  was  much  the  same. 
The  ample  play-ground  seemed  to  be  too  strait- 
ened for  our  young  Cumbrian,  as  Cumberland 
people  are  called ;  for,  still  like  the  unhappy 
caged  wild  bird,  which  beats  its  breast  maclly 
against  the  imprisoning  wires,  so  did  the  poor 
boy,  day  after  day,  walk  round  and  round,  close 
to  the  high  palings  and  hedges  which  shut  him 
in,  wishing  with  all  his  heart — who  can  doubt 
it  ? — that  he  had  wings  like  the  dove,  that  he 
might  fly  away  and  be  at  rest. 

Weeks  passed  away  from  the  time  of  his  first 


46  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

introduction  to  school  life,  and  still  the  little 
Cumbrian  was  solitary  and  sad.  No  one  seem- 
ed to  care  for  him,  except  the  master,  who  took 
kindly  notice  of  him,  and  strove  by  gentle  en- 
couragements to  reconcile  him  to  his  new  life. 
But  the  poor  boy  shrunk  from  notice,  and  pre- 
ferred communion  with  his  own  lonely  and  me- 
lancholy thoughts. 

Little  Tom  was  an  orphan.  His  father  had 
died  about  three  years  before  the  time  we  first 
knew  him ;  his  mother  scarcely  more  than  as 
many  months.  No  wonder  he  was  sad.  Before 
his  father's  death,  the  child  had  been  healthy 
and  joyous;  but  afterward,  he  had  drooped  and 
pined  like  a  tender  plant  deprived  of  its  nutri- 
ment. None  could  tell  what  ailed  him;  but 
all  foretold  that  he  would  not  live  long  on 
earth ;  that  his  mother  would  be  left  alone,  for 
she  had  no  other  child.  And  the  mother,  be- 
lieving and  fearing  this,  had  petted  the  weak 
boy,  and  permitted  him  to  roam  at  will  over 
the  beautiful  hills  of  his  native  country,  un- 
trammelled by  tasks  and  books ;  and  had  wait- 
ed on  him  with  such  love  as  dwells  only  in  a 
mother's  breast. 

The  young  Cumbrian  loved  nature ;  and  na- 
ture was  the  book  which  he  had  studied  under 
his  mother's  eye.  He  had  studied  it  well,  too. 
He  knew  much  about  the  birds  of  the  air$  their 
"wood-notes  wild,"  their  names,  their  natures, 
and  their  nests ;    of  the  summer 


THE   YOUNG    CUMBRIAN.  47 

and  the  flowers  of  the  field,  and  the  hill  side, 
and  the  valley.  His  mother  had  been  his 
teacher,  as  together  they  daily  roamed  in 
search  of  health  and  strength — while  she  had 
health  and  strength  to  roam — over  the  wild 
but  beautiful  country  around  their  pretty  cot- 
tage. Happily  for  the  little  orphan  and  for 
herself,  she  could  teach  other  things  than  these. 
She  was  a  Christian ;  and  she  knew  that,  beau- 
tiful as  is  nature,  and  much  as  it  tells  of  God's 
power  and  goodness  to  create  and  preserve,  and 
to  bless  with  daily  mercies,  it  is  the  "gospel 
alone  which  tells  of  his  power  to  save — to  save 
sinners.  From  her  lips,  therefore,  had  the 
boy  heard  the  gospel,  the  good  news  of  a  Sa- 
viour ;  and  God  had  blessed  her  teaching  and 
her  prayers.  Afterward, — months  after  we 
first  knew  him, — the  great  incentive  to  learning, 
with  him,  was  that  he  might  be  able  to  read 
and  diligently  study  those  blessed  truths  of 
which,  young  as  he  was,  he  was  never  ashamed, 
and  which  had  first  entered  his  heart  from  the 
lips  of  his  mother. 

But  the  oracles,  who  foreboded  the  boy's 
early  removal  from  earth,  were  mistaken.  The 
mother  was  taken ;  the  child- — weakly  still,  but 
gaining  strength — was  left.  Ah  !  it  is  a  woful 
stroke,  this,  to  a  fond  and  loving  boy, — the 
death  of  a  fond  and  loving  mother.  Surely 
few  things  on  earth  can  equal  it.  But  cheer 
up,  orphan  child.     There  is  One  who  is  the 


48  THE  YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

orphan's  Friend.  Trust  in  him,  and  you  shall 
know  what  these-  words  mean,  "When  my  fa- 
ther and  my  mother  forsake  me,  then  the  Lord 
will  take  me  up."  Yes,  you  shall  know  it: 
never  fear. 

Boys,  merry-hearted  hoys,  who  know  not 
what  bereavement  means,  never  treat  an  orphan 
school-boy  unkindly.  Think  of  your  own  pa- 
rents as  dead,  and  surely  you  will  not  have  the 
heart  to  do  it.  Think  of  the  great  and  glo- 
rious Jehovah  as  the  "Father  of  the  father- 
less," the  Parent  of  the  parentless,  and  surely 
you  will  not  have  the  courage  to  do  it. 

Yes,  it  was  a  mournful  stroke  to  the  little 
Cumbrian : — his  father  gone,  his  mother  gone, 
strangers,  only  strangers  around  him!  .  Then 
came  his  uncle,  his  mother's  brother,  and  spoke 
comforting  words  to  him,  and  bore  him  away; 
and  then,  after  a  few  weeks,  Tom  Smith  was 
sent  to  school.  He  would  be  rich,  (he  was  told,) 
when  he  should  have  grown  up  to  be  a  man,  and 
he  must  receive  a  fitting  education;  but  these 
words  had  failed  to  convey  joy  to  his  heart,  or 
animation  to  his  mind. 


Time  heals  many  sorrows ;  but  some  sorrows 
take  a  long  time  to  heal.  It  was  thus  with  the 
•young  Cumbrian ;  for,  too  weakly,  too  unapt, 
and  too  shy  and  shrinking  to  take  part  in  the 
boisterous  sports  of  his  school-fellows,  and  too 
young,  perhaps,  (at  any  rate  too  ignorant,)  to 


THE  YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  49 

join  in  their  more  intellectual  recreations,  he 
was -in  great  danger  of  settling  down  into  me- 
lancholy mopishness.  His  love  of  nature  re- 
scued him  from  this  danger. 

In  one  of  the  pleasant  country  rambles  which 
used  to  vary  the  monotony  of  the  school  and 
play-ground,  little  Tom — his  countenance  light- 
ed up  and  brightened  with  ecstacy — sprang 
forward,  uttered  a  cry  of  delight,  and  com- 
menced digging  vigorously  at  the  root  of  a 
small  wild  flower  which  his  languid  eye  had 
spied  in  the  meadow,  through  which  the  school- 
boys were  passing.  It  was  an  uncommon  flower 
where  found,  but'  common  on  the  hills  of  Cum- 
berland ;  and  to  the  boy  it  seemed  like  the  re- 
turn of  a  long  absent  friend.  He  carefully 
removed  it  and  conveyed  it  home ;  procured  a 
pot,  and  planted  it,  and  thenceforward,  day 
after'  day,  he  visited  his  new-found  treasure, 
watered  and  nourished  it,  and  was  no  longer 
lonely. 

It  was  not  long  after  this,  as  the  young 
Cumbrian,  retired  to  a  corner  of  the  play- 
ground— his  corner — was  tending,  with  affec- 
tionate care,  his  own  dear  flower,  and  rejoicing 
in  the  fresh,  healthy  young  buds  it  was  putting 
forth,  that  his  monitor — who  had  been  just 
advanced  to  the  oversight  of  the  lowest  class — 
came  forward  in  all  the  full-blown  importance 
of  his  new  office  : — 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,  you  young  dunce  !  I 
5 


50  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

thought  I  should  find  you  here  with  your  stupid 
weed.  Do  you  remember  what  I  told  you  yes- 
terday ?" 

"  About  the  multiplication  table  ?"  asked  the 
little  fellow, — timidly. 

aYes,  about  the  multiplication  table,"  re- 
sponded the  young  official,  mimicking  (as  we 
need  not  mimic  here)  the  dialect  and  exaggerat- 
ing the  tones  of  the  shrinking  boy;  "that's 
just  it.     Come,  do  you  know  it  now  ?" 

"I  don't  know: — I  am  not  sure,"  replied 
the  orphan,  with  a  tear  in  his  eye,  and  trem- 
bling at  the  bullying  manner  of  his  school-fel- 
low. "  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  perfect  in  it  yet ; 
it  is  very  difficult." 

"Nonsense! — difficult?  that  won't  do.  I 
never  found  it  difficult,  and  I  knew  it  long  be- 
fore I  was  as  old  as  you  are.  But  difficult  or 
not,  you  know,  I  told  you  to  learn  it  off-hand, 
and  say  it  to  me  to-day,  if  you  did  not  want  to 
catch — you  know  what.  I  am  not  going  to 
have  dunces  in  my  class,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  New  brooms  sweep  clean,  they  say,  Bow- 
ler,"— sarcastically  observed  a  boy  who  just 
then  was  passing. 

"  Mind  your  own  business,  will  you,  Mans- 
field," replied  the  new  monitor,  turning  angrily 
to  the  intruder ;  and  then  again  addressing 
himself  to  the  little  Cumbrian — "  I  shan't  let 
you  off.  Mr.  Weston  told  me  I  was  to  get  you 
on,  and  drill  the  table  into  you ;  for  it  was  a 


THE   YOUNG    CTJMBKIAN.  51 

month  ago,  or  more,  that  you  began  to  learn  it.. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

Poor  little  Tom  made  no  reply;  but,  still 
seated  on  the  ground,  he  hugged  his  treasure, 
and  looked  up  imploringly  into  the  face  of  his 
monitor.  He  could  read  no  pity  there ;  and, 
looking  downward,  a  big  tear-drop  or  two  fell 
upon  the  flower. 

"  Oh  !  blubbering,  are  you?  You  little  milk- 
sop. Come,  none  of  that ;  now,  put  down  that 
stupid  bit  of  earthenware,  and  let  us  hear  what 
you  know.  Now  then,  do  you  mind  ?  Put  it 
down,  I  say,  directly." 

The  frightened  boy  did  as  he  was  ordered. 

"Now  mind,"  said  the  young  tyrant;  "if 
you  don't  answer  every  question,  I  shall  just 
make  an  end  of  that  flower  you  make  such  a 
fuss  about;  do  you  hear?"  And,  saying  this, 
he  snatched  up  the  flowerpot,  and  held  it  in  his 
left  hand. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no;  pray,  pray,  Mr.  Bowler!" 
cried  the  poor  child  beseechingly,  and  spring- 
ing to  his  feet,  "  don't,  please  don't.  I  will  do 
any  thing  you  tell  me,  if  I  can;  and  I  will 
learn  the  table  directly ;  but  don't  hurt  my  poor 
flower.     Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  love  it !" 

"Oh,  love  it,  do  you?  Well,  I  don't  care 
for  that;  and  you  need  not  think  to  come  over 
me  by  calling  me  mister.  I  am  no.  mister  yet, 
but  plain  Jack ;  and  I  shall  do  just  what  I  said ; 
so  here  goes." 


52  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

Mansfield  was  standing  a  little  way  off;  and 
the  unhappy  young  Cumbrian  turned  his  eyes 
toward  him,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Will  you  not 
take  my  part?"  But  the  imploring  look  was 
unseen,  or  unnoticed,  and  again  the  boy  stood 
despairingly  before  his  tormentor.  He  was 
convinced  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  answer 
the  questions  put  to  him :  he  had  been  for  days 
and  weeks  labouring  at  the  multiplication  table, 
but  in  vain ;  and  the  more  he  had  striven,  the 
more  confused  he  had  become. 

"Here  goes,"  shouted  Bowler,  again  grasp- 
ing the  flower  roughly  with  his  right  hand: 
"  Twelve  times  seven,  how  many  ?" 

"  Seventy-two,"  gasped  the  poor  boy, — after 
a  short  pause,  and  almost  unconscious  of  what 
he  said. 

The  next  moment  the  broken  flower-pot,  and 
the  mould  it  had  contained,  were  strewed  at  his 
feet,  and  the  tyrant  was  tearing  to  pieces  the 
flower,  root,  and  branch  !  "  There,  and  there, 
and  there !"  he  shouted  exultingly.  "*I  told 
you  I  would  do  it.  Twelve  times  seven  is 
seventy-two,  is  it  ?     Ha,  ha  !" 

Poor  Tom  uttered  one  sorrowful  moan,  as  he 
looked  at  the  scattered  fragments  of  his  pet 
plant.  "My  mother,  my  dear,  dear  mother!" 
he  sobbed,  and  turned  away. 

"Bowler I  I  say  Bowler !  What  have  you  been 
doing  to  the  boy?"  exclaimed  Mansfield  angri- 
ly, his  attention  at  length  roused  by  the  loud 


THE  YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  53 

tones  of  the  one,  and  the  broken,  sob  of  the 
other.     "What  have  you  been  doing,  I  say?" 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  What  business  have 
you  to  interfere  ?" 

"  It  is  something  to  me ;  and  I  won't  stand 
by  and  see  a  little  fellow  misused,  whoever  he 
may  be.  What  has  he  done  to  you,  Tom  ? 
Did  he  strike  you?" 

"  Oh  no,"  sobbed  the  boy.  He'  could  say 
no  more ;  but  pointed  to  the  broken  pot  and 
ruined  flower. 

"Oh,  is  that  all?  Never  mind.  I'll  get 
,you  another  flower — pot  and  all — and  let  me 
see  if  he  dare  touch  that.  What  is  it  all  about? 
Come  now,  tell  me." 

"Just  you  tell  me  one  tiling,"  shouted  Bow- 
ler, reddening  with  rage:  "Are  you  monitor 
of  the  sixth  class,  or  am  I?" 

"You  are ;  and  I  am  monitor  of  the  third," 
replied  Mansfield.     "Well,what  then?" 

"  Then  you  have  no  business  to  come  be- 
tween me  and  my  boys ;  and  you  shan't 
either." 

"  Gently,  Mr.  Monitor  of  the  sixth,"  replied 
Mansfield  coolly.  "  If  I  see  you  ill  treating 
any  boy — yours,  mine,  or  anybody  else's — I 
shall  interfere.  And  more  than  that,  you 
know  who  else  would  interfere  if  I  were  to 
choose  to  tell  him  that  you  have  been  domi- 
neering.    So  you  had  better  be  quiet." 

For  some  reason  or  other,  Bowler  thought  so 
5* 


54  THE   YOUNG    CUMBRIAN. 

too ;  and  taking  the  advice,  walked  away  in  a 
silent  rage,  only  muttering  to  himself  that  he 
would  have  it  out  of  Tom  Smith  yet,  when 
there  should  be  no  one  to  take  his  part. 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  Tom,"  said  his 
self-constituted  protector,  kindly. 

It  was  the  first  time  Mansfield  had  taken 
any  notice  of  the  little  fellow,  and  the  kind 
tone  unlocked  Tom's  heart,  and  he  told  his  new 
friend  some  of  his  troubles. 

"  Well  now,  cheer  up,  Tom.  I  will  teach 
you  this  dreadful  multiplication  table,  and  we 
will  look  after  another  flower  for  you  next 
time  we  go  out.  Come  along ;"  and  Mans- 
field led  his  young  friend  to  one  of  the  rustic 
seats  in  the  play-^ound.  "Come,  don't  be 
discouraged.  I  was,  though,  when  I  had  to 
learn  that  table  first;  but  my  sister  put  me  up 
to  a  good  way  of  remembering  nine  times  and 
twelve  times — they  puzzled  me  most ;  and  then 
I  soon  got  over  it." 

Mansfield  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  bet- 
ter. He  had  a  grateful  scholar,  and  soon  the 
formidable  table  was  overcome,  and  manj 
things  beside,  which,  to  the  dis-spirited  young 
Cumbrian,  had  till  now  seemed  almost  insur- 
mountable. Another  flower  was  found,  too, 
and  many  other  flowers;  aild  Mansfield  learned 
from  his  little  friend  many  pleasant  things 
about  them  which  he  had  never  dreamed  of  be- 
fore.   The  whole  school  wondered  at  this  friend- 


THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  55 

ship,  for  Mansfield  was  one  of  the  oldest  and 
brightest  of  their  number;  but  he  let  them 
wonder  on. 

Tom  Smith  was  at  the  sixth  class,  and  Bowler 
was  monitor  of  the  sixth,  and  Bowler  had 
become  Tom's  enemy  from  the  day  in  which 
Mansfield  had  become  Tom's  friend.  And 
many  a  cruel  way  he  had  of  making  his  enmity 
felt  without  openly  showing  it.  Ah !  how 
quick  were  his  eyes  to  see  a  misshapen  letter,  a 
misspelt  word,  a  mistaken  figure,  in  the  little 
orphan  boy's  copy,  exercise,  or  sum ;  and  how 
ready  was  his  hand  to  put  .down  a  bad  mark 
for  these  misdeeds  !  How  sharp  were  his  ears 
to  catch  a  premature  whisper,  before  it  had  half 
escaped  the  young  Cumbrian's  lips  !  "  Another 
bad  mark  for  that."  How  keenly  did  the 
monitor  of  the  sixth  peer  into  little  Tom  Smith's 
class  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  and  wo 
to  poor  Tom  if  a  book  had  been  carelessly 
thrown  in  out  of  true  square.  "  Another  bad 
mark  for  an  untidy  desk.'.'  Or  if  a  pen  or 
pencil  below  the  legal  number  were  found 
deficient — "a  bad  mark  for  that  also."  Or  if, 
two  minutes  after  the  school-bell  had  rung,  and 
when  the  roll  was  called  over,  it  ever  happened 
that  Tom  were  just  entering  the  schoolroom- 
door  when  his  name  was  pronounced,  who  was 
ready  with  a  loud  "Absent"  by  way  of 
response  ?     Why,  Bowler,  the  monitor  of  the 


56  THE   YOUNa   CUMBRIAN. 

sixtli  class.  "Another  bad  mark  for  that. 
Master  Thomas." 

"  It  is  a  shame  for  you  to  spite  that  boy  so," 
said  one,  and  another,  and  another,  when  these 
things  happened ;  for,  in  time,  by  some  means 
or  other  (especially  by  the  generous  counte- 
nance of  Mansfield)  the  little  orphan  had 
become  a  favourite — so  gentle,  and  loving,  and 
trusting  he  had  proved  himself. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  shame  ?"  exclaimed 
the  monitor  of  the  sixth,  angrily  and  scornfully : 
"I  have  not  gone  beyond  my  authority,  have  I  ?" 

"No,  Bowler,  no;  these  things  were  all 
6  according  to  law' — the  letter  of  the  law, 
mind  you  ;  but  you  sadly  stopped  short  of  the 
spirit  of  that  other  law,  which  might  have  been 
observed,  and  the  first  not  disregarded — 

'The  new,  best  law  of  love.'  " 
« 

Two  years  passed  t  away,  and  the  young 
Cumbrian  had  made  rapid  advances — ay,  even 
towards  the  dignity  of  the  monitor's  post.  He 
was  no  longer  dull  of  comprehension.  Though 
gentle  in  temper  as  ever  he  had  been,  even  to 
timidity,  he  had  become  ardent  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge.  Many  of  the  boys  whom  he 
had  seen  at  his  first  entering  school,  had  left 
to  return  no  more.  Among  them  was  his  friend 
and   protector,    Mansfield  :*    many,  however, 

*  We  snail  have  more  to  say  of  Mansfield,  however,  in  the 
next  and  following  chapters,  and  of  Bowlor,  too. 


THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  57 

remained,  and  among  these  was  Bowler,  still, 
— in  spite  of  vacancies  above  him — the  monitor 
of  the  sixth  class.  He  seemed  a  fixture  there, 
for,  one  after  another,  younger  boys  had 
stepped  over  his  head,  and  Tom  Smith  was 
pressing  closely  at  his  heels. 

All  the  boys  loved  Smith— all  but  Bowler, 
whose  old  feelings  of  tyrannical  contempt  for 
the  little  dunce  who  did  not  know  his  multipli- 
cation table,  were  deepened  into  jealous  aver^ 
sion  to  the  bright  lad  who,  though  three  years 
younger  than  himself,  and  shorter  by  nearly  a 
head,  was  constantly  taking  him  down  in  class, 
and  bade  fair,  in  the  way  of  frank  and  honour- 
able emulation,  to  trip  him  up  entirely.  Not 
that  our  gentle,  little — still  little — Tom  Smith 
had  any  wish  to  do  this ;  but  that  it  followed, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  for  the  industrious, 
persevering,  and  active-minded  to  overtake  the 
laggard.  It  is  so  everywhere,  and  it  must 
therefore  be  so  at  school. 

A  very  short  time  ago  we  read  a  beautiful 
description  of  another  schoolboy.  We  thought 
of  the  young  Cumbrian  when  we  read  it — it  so 
agrees  with  our  remembrance  of  him ;  and  here 
it  is: — 

"At  the  head  of  every  class  he,  of  course, 
was  found — but  no  ambition  had  he  to  be  there  ; 
and  like  a  bee  that  works  among  many  thousand 
others  in  the  clover  field,  heedless  of  their 
murmurs,  and  intent  wholly  on  its  own  fragrant 


58  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

toil ?  did  he  go  from  task  to  task — although 
that  was  no  fitting  name  for  the  studious 
creature's  meditations  on  all  he  read  or  wrought 
— no  more  a  task  for  him  to  grow  in  knowledge 
'  and  in  thought  than  for  a  lily  of  the  field  to 
lift  up  its  head  toward  the  sun. 

"That  child's  religion  was  like  all  the  other 
parts  of  his  character — as  prone  to  tears  as 
that  of  other  children,  when  they  read  of  the 
divine  Friend  dying  for  them  on  the  cross : 
but  it  was  profounder  far  than  theirs,  when  it 
shed  no  tears,  and  only  made  the  paleness  of 
his  countenance  more  like  that  which  we 
imagine  to  be  the  paleness  of  a  phantom. 

"  No  one  ever  saw  him  angry,  complaining, 
or  displeased ;  for  angelic  indeed  was  his 
temper,  purified,  like  gold  in  fire,  by  suffering. 
He  shunned  not  the  company  of  other  children, 
but  loved  all,  as  by  them  all  he  was  more  than 
beloved.  In  few  of  their  plays  could  he  take 
an  active  share ;  but  sitting  a  little  way  off, 
still  attached  to  the  merry  brotherhood,  though 
in  their  society  he  had  no  part  to  enact,  he 
read  his  book  on  the  knoll,  or,  happy  dreamer  ! 
sank  away  among  the  visions  of  his  own 
thoughts." 

Such  was  "Wee  Willie  ;"  and  such  also  was 
our  little  Tom  Smith  after  his  mind  had,  in  a 
measure,  become  aroused  and  quickened  into 
energy  by  his  new-born  love  of  learning.  Such, 
in  loveliness  of  character,  had  he  ever  been. 


THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  59 

It  was  the  first  of  May ;  this  was  one  thing. 
It  was  the  day  to  change  places ;  that  was 
another.  On  the  first  of  every  month,  every 
desk  was  vacated,  and  each  boy  was  open  for 
advancement  to  a  higher  station,  or  liable  to 
be  degraded  to  a  lower,  as  his  number  stood  in 
the  general  casting  up  of  the  month's  class 
books.  These  days  were  days  of  excitement 
to  all,  of  pride  and  pleasure  to  some,  and  of 
disappointment,  shame,  and  grief  to  others. 
By  the  events  of  these  days  were  the  diligent 
stimulated  to  greater  diligence  to  keep  steady 
their  standing,  and  still  to  rise ;  while  th^ 
dilatory  were  stirred  up  to  exertion  to  regain 
the  ground  they  had  lost.  Whether  the  moral 
effect  of  this  constant  incentive — this  perpetual 
emulation — was  equal  to  its  educational  value, 
or  whether  the  evil  passions  of  envy  and  malice 
were  excited  so  as  to  counterbalance  that 
value^need  not  be  discussed  here. 

Hurrah  !  Well  done,  little  Tom  !  Who  would 
have  thought  it  two  years  ago  ?  Actually  and 
absolutely  has  he — our  young  Cumbrian — 
again  made  progress,  one,  two,  three  steps  in 
advance ;  he  is  now  the  sixth  boy  in  the  school, 
and  from  this  day  is  he  the  monitor  of  the  sixth 
class.     The  palm  to  him  who  deserves  it. 

Tom  Smith  the  monitor  of  the  sixth  class  ! 
But  where  was  his  old  tyrant,  and  more 
recently  his  ungenerous  rival,  Bowler  ?  Alas 
for  the  uncertainty  of  mortal  hqnours  !  He  had 


60  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

lost  his  office — degraded  after  being  two  years 
a  monitor. 

"It  is  a  mistake  ;.  I  am  sure  it  is,"  exclaimed 
poor  Bowler,  greatly  agitated — trembling  in- 
deed with  vexation  and  anger,  as  he  heard  his 
doom  from  the  lips  of  the  teacher,  who  was 
calling  over  the  names. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  young  '  Cumbrian, 
timidly,  and  blushing  deep  red,  "  I  think  there 
must  be  a  mistake.  I  think  the  numbers  must 
have  been  added  up  wrong,  sir." 

"  You  shall  both  of  you  have  the  books  to 
examine  for  yourselves  after  I  have  called  over 
all  the  names,"  said  the  teacher;  "but  I 
believe  you  will  find  that  we  are  right." 

But  still  Bowler  kept  doggedly  seated  at  his 
monitorial  desk  ;  and  Tom  lingered  at  his  old 
one. 

"You  must  move  your  books,  Smith,  said 
another  boy,  as  the  business  of  the  dajr  pro- 
ceeded.    "  This  is  my  desk,  now." 

Tom  knew  that,  and  silently  yielded  up  his 
desk  and  seat. 

"  Go  at  once  to  your  new  place,  Tom,  and 
turn  Bowler  out ;  I  would,"  said  one.  But 
Tom  would  not  do  that ;  and  with  his  books 
under  his  arm,  he  looked  like  some  poor  folks 
we  have  heard  of  who  were  turned  out  of  house 
and  home  into  the  street,  unprovided  with 
another,  with  beds  and  bedsteads,  tables  and 
chairs,  pots  an$  pans,  in  wild  confusion  around 


THE   YOUNG    CUMBKIAN.  61 

them.  He  had  not  long  to  stand,  however,  in 
this  state  of  perplexity.  Half  a  dozen  desks 
were  speedily  opened  to  receive  the  goods  and 
chattels." 

"Put  them  here" — and  ahere" — and  "here 
— till  you  have  settled  your  account  with 
Bowler,"  said  as  many  voices;  and  Tom  was 
relieved  of  his  burden. 

No ;  there  was  no  mistake.  The  figures 
were  right ;  the  casting  up  was  right.  Bowler 
could  not  dispute  this ;  nor  could  Tom. 

"Well,  are  you  satisfied?"  asked  Mr. 
Weston,  the  teacher. 

Bowler  scowled,  and  marching  sullenly  to 
his  old  desk — his  no  longer — commenced 
emptying  it. 

But  what  ailed  the  young  Cumbrian  that  he 
stood  stock-still  before  the  great  railed-in 
mahogany  desk  of  the  master — the  dread 
tribunal,  as  it  was,  to  every  erring  schoolboy  ? 

"Well,  Tom" — even  the  teachers  called  our 
young  friend  by  the  familiar  name — "  are  you 
not  satisfied?"  said  the  usher. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  he  began,  and  then 
blushed  a  deeper  scarlet  than  ever.  His  eyes, 
too,  were  swimming  with  tears. 

Mr.  Weston  smiled  encouragingly.  It  was 
like  .him  to  do  so.  A  kinder  man  than  he 
never  drew  breath. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  could  not  Bowler  keep 
his  desk  ?  I  don't  wish  to  take  him  down,  sir ; 
6 


62  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

I  don't  indeed.  I  am  so  sorry  this  has  hap- 
pened, sir." 

"lam  sorry  too,  Tom,  if  you  are  sorry  ;  but 
really  there  is  no  help  for  it  that  I  can  see." 

"  Would  you  be  so  kind,  sir,  as  to  ask  Mr. 

D ?     I  think  he  would  not  mind  this  once 

— -just  this  once,  you  know,  sir." 

"  I  will  ask  him,  certainly,  if  you  wish  it ; 
but  it  will  be  useless." 

Yes,  quite  useless.  Tom  rose,  and  Bowler 
sank. 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig  about  it,"  said  Bowler — 
(he  did,  though ;)  "it  was  all  chance" — (it  was 
not,  though;)  "and  this  is  my  last  term  at 
school :  but  if  Smith  shows  any  airs  ! — ah,  let 
him  if  he  dare." 

There  was  little  danger  of  Tom's  showing 
airs.  He  bore  his  honours  meekly;  and,  but 
for  an  occasional  fiery  glance  of  his  dark  eye, 
when  his  rival  crossed  his  path  in  the  play- 
ground, Bowler  seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten 
his  defeat. 

The  few  weeks  which  intervened  between  the 
first  of  May  and  the  midsummer  holidays  were 
soon  over,  and,  full  of  hope  and  expectation, 
every  boy  was  looking  forward  to  the  morrow. 
It  was  the  last  day  at  school,  and  a  long  ramble 
in  the  fields  and  woods  was  to  wind  up  the 
business  of  the  half  year. 

That  afternoon,  in  the  thickest  part  of  a 
shady  grove,  two  boys,  seperated  from  the  rest 


THE  YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  63 

of  their  schoolfellows,  who  were  widely  scattered 
in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  suddenly  met, 
and  faced  each  other.  Suddenly,  but  not 
accidentally,  for  the  smaller  and  younger,  had 
been,  through  that  whole  afternoon's  ramble, 
narrowly  watched,  and  stealthily  followed  by 
the  older  and  bigger. 

"Now,  Smith,"  said  Bowler — for  he  it  was 
— "we  will  just  settle  our  scores  before  we 
part." 

If  the  little  fellow  had  doubted  the  meaning 
of  the  words  he  heard,  he  could  hardly  have 
misinterpreted  the  look  and  tone.  He  turned 
away  hastily,  and  would  have  attempted  to 
escape,  but  Bowler  was  too  much  in  earnest  to 
permit  it.  A  few  long  strides,  and  the  boys 
were  within  arm's  length  of  each  other. 

"  You  didn't  think  to  shirk  me  so,  did  you, 
Mr.  Monitor?"  said  the  big  boy  with  a  sneer. 
"Take  that!" 

The  that  was  a  violent  blow. 

Poor  Smith  shrieked  with  pain  and  fear. 

"  Cry  away,"  said  Bowler ;  "  there  is  nobody 
near  enough  to  hear  you.  I  took  care  of  that : 
now,  will  you  fight  or  won't  you  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  abused  boy,  "I  will  not 
fight.  I  don't  know  how  to  fight ;  and  if  I 
did,  I  would  not.  It  is  like  a  coward  to  strike 
one  so  much  less,  and  so  much  weaker  than 
yourself:"  and  again  the  boy  attempted  to 
escape. 


64  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

Vain  attempt !  Transported  with  rage, 
which  had  long  been  pent  up— Cain-like — 
against  the  innocent  cause  of  his  disgrace,  the 
cowardly  lad  struck  the  unresisting  boy  again 
and  again  to  the  ground. 

Evening  came  ;  and  the  boys,  tired — more 
tired  by  far  with  their  day's  recreation  than 
with  the  hardest  day's  work — returned  school- 
ward.  It  was  not  till  they  had  reached  this 
destination  that  one  was  discovered  missing. 

"  Where  is  Bowler  ?   Who  has  seen  Bowler?" 

No  one  had  seen  Bowler  since  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon ;  and  nowhere  was  Bowler  to  be 
found. 

Long  and  anxious  were  the  inquiries  con- 
cerning him ;  and  when,  at  length,  it  was  quite 
clear  that  he  had  either  been  left  behind,  or 
had  intentionally  absented  himself,  the  young , 
Cumbrian,  who  had  until  then  kept  as  much 
apart  from  his  companions  as  he  could,  was 
observed  by  his  teacher  to  be  in  a  sad  plight, 
and  on  being  closely  questioned,  its  cause  was 
ascertained.  Poor  fellow  !  Bruised  all  over  as 
he  was,  head,  body,  and  limbs,  with  the  infuri- 
ated blows  of  his  enemy,  his  condition  excited 
both  compassion  and  just  anger.  The  mystery 
was  explained — at  least  the  truth  was  suspected, 
that,  having  taken  his  revenge,  Bowler  had 
feared  the  consequences,  and  had  run  away 
homeward.     And  so  it  afterward  proved. 


THE  YOUNG  CUMBEIAN.  65 

Many  years  afterward,  when  all  the  boys 
of  that  generation  had  become  men — such  of 
them,  let  us  rather  say,  as  yet  lived — notices 
were  issued  in  a  large  provincial  town  that  a 
course  of  lectures  on  some  scientific  subjects 
would  be  delivered  by  a  stranger,  in  the  assembly- 
room.  Accordingly,  a  small  number  purchased 
tickets,  and  met  together  at  the  appointed  time 
and  place.  Among  these  were  a  stout  and 
pleasant-looking  gentleman,  one  of  the  principal 
tradesmen  of  the  town,  and,  arm-in-arm  with 
him,  his  friend,  thin,  pale,  and  studious,  the 
minister  of  one  of  its  parishes.  They  took 
their  seats,  and  looked  around  them. 

"A  poor  speculation,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the 
former  to  his  friend. 

"  I  fear  so  too,  Mansfield,"  replied  the  other, 
"if  this  is  to  be  the  extent  of  the  audience." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  lecturer  made  his 
appearance.  He  also  looked  round,  and  it  was 
plain  to  see  that  he  felt  disappointed  and 
anxious.  He  commenced  his  lecture,  however, 
and  succeeded  in  pleasing  his  audience.  But, 
presently  an  odd  change  was  observed  to  come 
over  him.  He  turned  red  in  the  face,  then 
pale,  his  lips  quivered,  his  ideas  seemed 
entangled  and  confused;  he  hesitated,  he 
stammered,  his  voice  became  husky,  and  his 
mouth  dry.  These  distressing  symptoms  ex- 
cited the  compassion  of  the  lecturer's  small 
audience,  and  they  good-naturedly  •  clapped 
6* 


66  THE   YOUNG    CUMBRIAN. 

their  hands  and  stamped  their  feet,  by  way  of 
commendation  and  encouragement.  Among 
these  clappers  none  were  more  energetic  than 
the  clergyman  and  his  friend. 

This  kind  consideration  had,  in  part,  the 
desired  effect.  The  lecturer,  though  he  did 
not  entirely  recover  his  composure,  was  enabled 
to  go  on  creditably,  though  his  eyes  seemed 
fixed,  as  by  some  fascination,  to  that  particular 
part  of  the  room  where  were  seated  the  two 
gentlemen  already  mentioned ;  and  it  was  an 
evident  relief  to  him  when  his  lecture  was  over. 

"Mansfield,"  said  the  clergyman  to  his 
companion  as  they  quitted  the  room,  "  do  you 
know  that  lecturer  ?" 

"No;  how  should  I?  And  yet,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  there  is  something  in  the  cast  of  his 
eye  and  the  shape  of  his  mouth  that  puzzled 
me.  I  must  have  seen  him  before  somewhere : 
but  then,  you  know,  I  meet  so  many  people 
who  are  strangers  to  me  that  it  is  no  wonder. 
But  do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  knew  him  once.  You  went 
to  school  with  him." 

"No,  surely  not.  Dutton — Dutton — I  don't 
remember  a  boy  of  that  name." 

"Button  is  not  his  name — at  least,  it  was 
not  his  name  as  a  school-boy.  Why  he  has 
chosen  to  alter  it  I  cannot  of  course  tell,  but 
we  knew  him  as  Jack  Bowler." 

"Bowler!  ah,  so  it  is.     How  strange  I  dicf 


THE  YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  67 

not  recognise  him  !  Bowler — Jack  Bowler  ! 
How  very  odd !  No  wonder  he  was  put  out 
of  countenance  wThen  he  saw  you — that  is,  if 
his  eye-sight  and  memory  are  as  good  as  yours. 
What  can  be  the  meaning  of  his  turning  lec- 
turer, and  changing  his  name  ?  Poor  fellow  ! 
he  looks  needy  enough,  and  it  serves  him  right, 
too,  for  his  treatment  of  you.  Ah,  he  was  an 
ill-conducted  fellow,  to  say  the  best  of  him. 
Well,  you  won't  go  near  him  to-morrow  night, 
I  should  think." 

"Why  not,  Mansfield?" 

"Why  not?  Oh,  for  no  particular  reason," 
returned  Mansfield,  laughing ;  "  only,  my  dear 
friend,  I  should  have  thought  you  had  had 
enough  of  Bowler  in  days  gone  by." 

"  That  was  a  long  time  ago  ;  and  you  know 
our  old  master  used  to  warn  us  not  to  stir  up- 
old  grievances." 

"  True  ;  but  he  did  not  tell  us  to  forget  them, 
that  I  remember." 

"  But  the  Bible,  Mansfield,  teaches  us  some- 
thing still  better.  Well,  good  night,"  he  add- 
ed, as  they  reached  Mr.  Mansfield's  door ;  "  I 
shall  call  for  you  to-morrow  evening." 

Before  the  morrow  evening  arrived,  however, 
an  unexpected  stop  had  been  put  to  the  whole 
business.  The  lecturer  had  disappeared,  and 
the  sale  of  tickets  had  been  countermanded. 

"  He  was  afraid  to  face  you  again,  depend 
upon  it,"  said  Mr.  Mansfield  to  his  friend  when 


68  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

they  again  met ;  and  he  laughed  heartily  at 
the  embarrassment  into  which  Mr.  Lecturer 
had  been  thrown  on  the  former  evening  by  the 
apparition  of  "little  Tom  Smith." 

"  I  hope  I  did  not  drive  him  away,"  replied 
the  clergyman,  mildly.  "  I  do  not  look  very 
formidable,  I  think." 


The  story  of  the  little  Cumbrian  is  nearly 
ended — not  quite." 

"Blessings  on  him,  whoever  he  is,"  said  a 
sobbing  man,  holding  in  his  hand  an  open  let- 
ter, from  the  folds  of  which,  as  he  opened  it, 
had  dropped  a  bank-note  of  some  value ;  "  I 
did  not  think  we  had  a  friend  left  in  the  world, 
Caroline — not  one,  at  least,  who  could  help  us; 
and  to  think  of  this  !" 

It  was  a  miserable  lodging  in  a  wretched 
street  in  one  of  the  poverty-stricken  parts  of  a 
great  city,  that  these  words  were  spoken.  The 
listener  was  a  wan  and  seemingly  half-starved 
woman,  nursing  a  feeble  infant ;  while  at  her 
knee,  or  near  it,  were  two  other  children, 
almost  unclothed,  and  crying — perhaps  in  sym- 
pathy writh  their  parents.  The  speaker  was 
the  same  Jack  Bowler  ! 

"  Has  the  letter  no  signature  ? — Are  you 
sure  ?     Has  it  no  post-mark  ?" 

No,  it  had  only  the  post-mark,  and  no  signa- 
ture. It  contained  but  a  few  lines  of  Christian 
kindness  and  consolation,  and  a  hope  that  the 


THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  69 

enclosed  trifle — ah !  it  was  no  trifle  to  poor 
Bowler — would  assist  in  relieving  his  present 
necessities. 

"Cannot  you  guess,  who  this  friend  is?" 
asked  the  wife  with  excusable  curiosity. 

The  husband  did  not  immediately  reply ;  and 
when  he  did,  it  was  in  a  low,  troubled,  broken 
tone,  and  with  a  burning  cheek. 

"I  can  guess,"  he  said;  "and  I  do.  There 
wa,s  a  boy  at  school — a  little  orphan  boy — 
whom  I  hated,  and — do  not  despise  me,  Caro- 
line, though  I  despise  myself  when  I  think  of 
it — :yes,  I  hated  the  poor  little  orphan,  and 
grievously  misused  him.  Well,  when  I  went 
on  that  unfortunate  lecturing  tour  last  summer, 
who  should  start  up  before  me  but  this  same 
boy — in  company  with,  as  I  afterward  found,  a 
clergyman.  I  knew  him  as  soon  as  I  saw  him ; 
and  I  thought  that  he  knew  me  too.  I  was 
thunder-struck,  or  conscience-struck,  and  could 
scarcely  go  on.  There  was  I,  a  poor  shabby 
adventurer,  obliged  to  take  a  false  name  for 
fear  of  my  creditors,  while  striving  to  earn  a 
few  shillings  to  keep  starvation  from  our  door; 
and  there  was  he,  evidently  a  prosperous  man ! 
I  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn,  and  nearly 
broke  down  in  the  middle  of  my  lecture ;  but 
he  looked  kindly — ay,  Christianly — upon  me, 
and  that  encouraged  me.  But  how  I  got 
through  the  rest  of  the  evening  I  don't  know ; 
and  the  next  day,  like  a  coward,  I  slipped  off. 


70  THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN. 

I  dreaded  to  see  him  again.  You  know  the 
rest,  Caroline,  for  that  was  my  last  attempt  at 
lecturing.  I  had  not  the  heart  to  try  else- 
where, and  that  brought  me  home." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  this — this  letter 
came  from  him  ?"-- 

"  It  did ;  I  am  sure  of  it." 


Bowler  was  right ;  and  it  was  but  one  of  a 
long  series  of  acts  of  kindness  which  he  and 
his,  thereafter,  received  from  the  young  Cum- 
brian, who  had  not  learned  in  vain  the  lessons 
of  Him  who  said — who  says  to  all — "  Ye  have 
heard  that  it  hath  been  said,  Thou  shalt  love 
thy  neighbour,  and  hate  thine  enemy.  But  I 
say  unto  you,  Love  you  enemies,  bless  them 
that  curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you, 
and  pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use  you, 
and  persecute  you ;  that  ye  may  be  the  child- 
ren of  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven :  for  he 
maketh  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the 
good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the 
unjust.  For  if  ye  love  them  which  love  you, 
what  reward  have  ye  ?  Do  not  even  the  publi- 
cans the  same  ?  And  if  ye  salute  your  breth- 
ren only,  what  do  ye  more  than  others  ?  Do  not 
even  the  publicans  so  ?'  Be  ye  therefore  per- 
fect, even  as  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  is 
perfect."  Matt.  v.  43-48. 

And  did  Bowler  profit  by  the  lesson  he  thus 
learned?     Yes,  he  did. 


THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  71 

And  now,  young  reader,  what  do  you  think 
of  our  little  Tom  Smith  ?  Or  rather,  what  dc 
you  think  of  the  principles  by  which  he  was 
actuated  ? 

"Ah,"  do  you  say,  "it  is  all  very  fine — this 
forgiveness  of  injuries,  and  loving  our  ene- 
mies, and  overcoming  evil  with  good;  but — " 

Yes,  yes;  we  know  there  is  a  "but"  and 
what  it  is.  "But,"  you  would  say,  "it  goes 
against  the  grain  to  put  up  with  bad  usage,  and 
to  do  good  to  them  that  have  done  us  all  the 
mischief  which  was  in  their  power." 

Yes,  it  does  go  very  much  against  the  grain, 
as  you  would  say ;  that  is,  it  goes  against  our 
natural  tempers  and  dispositions.  But  "  they 
that  are  Christ's"  you  know,  have  another 
rule  to  go  by ;  and  that  rule  teaches  them  to 
do  what  otherwise  they  would  not  do,  and  could 
not  sincerely  and  from  the  heart  do.  "  The 
fruit  of  the  Spirit  is  love,  joy,  peace,  long-suf- 
fering, gentleness,  goodness,  faith,  meekness, 
temperance :"  and  this  fruit  springs  up,  and 
grows,  and  ripens  in  the  heart  where  Jesus 
Christ  reigns. 

Dear  young  friends,  if  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
had  not  loved  his  enemies,  and  forgiven  the 
severest  injuries  inflicted  on  him  as  a  man ;  and 
if  he  had  not,  as  "  God  over  all,  blessed  for 
ever,"  done  this  and  more,  what  would  have 
become  of  us,  rebels  and  sinners  as  we  are  ? 
"  But  God  commendeth  his  love  toward  us>  in 


72  THE   YOUNG    CUMBRIAN. 

that,  while  we  were  jet  sinners,  Christ  died  for 
us."  "  He,"  yon  know,  "  did  no  sin,  neither  was 
guile  found  in  his  mouth :  when  he  was  reviled, 
he  reviled  not  again;  when  he  suffered,  he 
threatened  not ;  hut  committed  himself  to  him 
that  judgeth  righteously."  In  all  this  he  has 
left  us  "  an  example,  that  we  should  follow  his 
steps;"  and  just  in  proportion  as  we  are  like 
Christ,  "  all  bitterness,  and  wrath,  and  anger, 
and  clamour,  and  evil  speaking,"  will  be  "put 
away,  with  all  malice,"  and  we  shall  "  be  kind 
one  to  another,  tender-hearted,  forgiving  one 
another,  even  as  God  for  Christ's  sake  hath 
forgiven  us." 

Now,  our  young  Cumbrian  had  been  made 
"wise  unto  salvation  through  faith  which  is  in 
Christ  Jesus;"  he  had  learned  of  Him  who  was 
"meek  and  lowly  of  heart ;"  and  this  was  the 
secret  of  his  forgiving  and  loving  temper. 

Yes,  indeed ;  and  the  BiKbe  had,  as  he  told 
his  friend  Mansfield,  taught  him  "something 
better"  than  to  stir  up  old  grievances :  it  had 
taught  him  freely  to  forgive,  as  he  had  been 
freely  forgiven ;  it  had  taught  him,  too,  not  to 
be  overcome  of  evil,  but  to  overcome  evil  with 
good.  And  this  is  the  temper  we  must  all  of 
us  cherish,  if  we  would  be  like  Christ. 

And  if  we  are  not  like  Christ — ah  !  what  an 
if  that  is ! 

Are  you  ever  persecuted  by  some  overgrown, 
ill-natured  schoolfellow,  who,  you  think  and  say, 


THE   YOUNG   CUMBRIAN.  73 

has  a  spite  against  you  ?  And  does  your  heart 
swell  with  anger  against  him  ?  Be  like  Christ ; 
forgive  !  Think  of  Him  who  endured  such 
contradiction  of  sinners  against  himself;  do 
not  render  evil  for  evil,  or  railing  for  railing, 
but  contrariwise,  blessing.  Do  you  think  you 
have  no  friend  to  take  your  part,  and  that  it  is 
hard  to  bear  the  spite  and  malice  of  another  ? 
"Well,  but  you  have  a  Friend,  if  you  will  make 
him  your  friend — "  a  Friend  that  sticketh 
closer  than  a  brother  ;"  and  he  encourages  you 
to  come  boldly  to  the  throne  of  grace,  that  you 
may  obtain  mercy,  and  find  grace  to  help  m 
every  time  of  need.  Cast  your  burden  on  him, 
and  he  will  sustain  you. 

But  do  you  say  you  don't  know  how  to  do 
this  ;  it  is  not  what  you  are  used  to,  to  go  to 
God  by  Jesus  Christ ;  and  you  don't  think  he 
is  your  Friend  ? 

Then  it  is  high  time  for  you  to  go  to  him, 
seeking,  by  the  help  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  pardon 
for  your  sin  and  rebellion  against  him.  You 
are  encouraged  to  do  this  by  his  word ;  and  in 
receiving  his  forgiveness,  you  will  learn  also 
how  to  forgive. 


III. 

BARDOUR. 

About  the  time  that  Mansfield  was  good- 
naturedly  beginning  to  help  the  little  Cumbrian 
out  of  his  difficulties  connected  with  the  multi- 
plication table,  a  "new  boy"  made  his  appear- 
ance at  school ;  and  something  like  the  following 
conversation  took  place  in  the  school-room 
-during  play  hours. 

"  Have  you  seen  Johnny  Newcomb,  yet  ?" 

"No.     Who  is  he?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  his  name — that  is,  I 
forget  it,  for  Mr.  Harpur  told  me.  Barton,  is 
it  ? — Barlow  ?  No — Bar  something,  however ; 
but  that  does  not  signify.  But  he  is  a  dashing 
sort  of  fellow,  they  say.  He  came  this  morn- 
ing, in  a  grand  carriage  of  some  sort  or  other, 
along  with  his  father  or  his  uncle — his  uncle,  I 
think ;  and  they  say  he  is  the  son  of  a  gover- 
nor, or  judge,  or  something  of  that  kind." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  'he?'  Is  it  the 
new  boy,  or  his  uncle  ?" 

"Why,  his  uncle,  of  course.  He  is  the 
Honourable   Somebody  Something,  they  say." 

"  You  have  a  strange  way  of  expressing  your 
74 


BARDOUm.  lb 

meaning  this  afternoon,  friend  Willy  ;  or  your 
no  meaning,  rather,"  said  Mansfield,  who  was 
one  of  the  speakers.  4'  You  call  a  boy  whose 
name  you  do  not  know  '  Johnny  Newcome ;' 
you  speak  of  a  gentleman  being  of  a  certain 
4  kind,'  and  you  tell  me  that  '  they  say'  this 
and  that.     Who  are  the  f  they !'  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind;  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that 
James  told  me  all  about  it — except  what  Mr. 
Harpur  said — you  would  say  it  is  against  the 
rule  to  be  talking  with  the  servants ;  as  if  we 
could  be  always  minding  our  p's  and  q's.  But 
about  this  new  boy — Bar — Bar — Bardour ;  ay, 
that  is  his  name — Bardour :  I  shan't  like  him, 
i  know ;   shall  you  ?" 

"  Beally,  said  Mansfield,  laughing,  "  I  do  not 
know;  how  should  I,  when  I  have  not  even 
seen  him  ?  And  how  do  you  know  that  you 
shall  not  like  him  !" 

"Why,  of  course,  he  will  be  proud,  and  very 
likely  won't  speak  to  any  of  us,  because  his 
uncle  is  so  grand." 

"  I  don't  see  that  exactly,  Willy :  but  if  it 
should  be  so,  we  shall  not  be  obliged  to  say 
much  to  him  ;   so  we  shall  be  even  so  far." 

"  No,  that  is  very  true ;  bu1»  it  is  so  dis- 
agreeable to  have  people  about  who  think  so 
much  of  themselves,  and  all  that." 

"  There,  you  are  talking  nonsense  again, 
Willy,"  said  Mansfield,  good-humouredly ; 
"  what  does  c  all  that'  mean  ?    and  how  do  you 


76  ^ARDOIJR. 

know  that  this  Bardour  thinks  much  of  him- 
self? or  if  he  should,  how  can  you  make  him 
out  to  be  'people?'  " 

"  You  are  as  bad  as  Mr.  Weston,  Mansfield," 
replied  Willy ;  "  you  know  very  well  what  I 
mean.  But  never  mind  Bardour  ;  that  is  not 
what  I  was  going  to  say  principally — about 
him,  I  mean ;  I  wish  you  would  just  do  that 
horrid  sum  for  me  that  I  got  such  a  scolding 
about  from  Mr.  Harpur  to-day.  You  will, 
won't  you?" 

"  I  cannot  exactly  do  it  for  you,  Willy ;  I 
must  not,  you  know;  but — " 

"You  can  if  you  like,  only  you  are  so 
particular;  but  I  know  what  I  know  for  all 
that." 

"You  must  be  very  famous,  then,  Willy," 
replied  Mansfield,  still  good-humouredly  :  "and 
what  is  it  that  you  know  that  you  know?" 

"  About  Tom  Smith  :  ah,  you  know.  You 
do  all  his  sums  for  him." 

"  Who  tells  you  so,  Willy  ?" 

"  Bowler  says  so ;  and  he  says  he  shall 
complain  of  you  for  interfering  with  the  boys 
at  his  desk.  If  Smith  had  asked  you  to  do 
a  sum  for  him,  you  would  have  done  it  in  a 
minute.  You  may  as  well  do  it  for  me ;  you 
have  known  me  longer  than  you  have  him." 

"Bowler  says  what  is  not  correct;  and  he 
knows  it,"  said  Mansfield,  quietly;  "and  he 
is  quite  welcome  to  complain  if  he  pleases.     I 


BARDOTJR.  77 

have  clone  no  more  for  Smith  than  I  am  -willing 
to  do  for  you  ;  and  if  you  will  bring  your  book 
and  slate,  I  will  try  to  put  you  in  the  way  of 
understanding  the  sum." 

Willy  went  to  his  desk  for  his  book  and  slate; 
and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more  Mansfield 
was  good-naturedly  attemping  to  explain  the 
rule  which  puzzled  his  school-fellow.  But  Willy 
was,  on  that  particular  occasion,  dull  of  com- 
prehension. He  wanted  to  be  at  play ;  and, 
every  moment,  his  mind  was  wandering  from 
what  he  was  doing.  In  truth,  he  wanted  nof 
to  be  helped  to  work,  but  to  have  his  work 
done  for  him.  At  length,  after  Mansfield, 
for  the  third  time,  was  going  over  the  same 
ground,  Willy  impatiently  snatched  away  the 
book. 

"It  ft  of  no  use,"  said  he,  "and  I  won't 
try;  and  I  think  it  is  very  ill-natured  of  you 
not  to  do  the  sum,  when  you  could  help  me  out 
of  this  hobble  in  a  minute  :"  and  he  put  away 
the  slate  and  book,  and  went  sulkily  into  the 
play-ground. 

The  next  day  Willy  was  "kept  in"  for  the 
unfinished  sum. 

He  was  leaning  sullenly  on  his  elbow,  play- 
ing with  himself  on  his  slate  at  "fox  and  geese," 
when  some  one  looked  over  his  shoulder ;  and 
turning  quickly  round,  Willy  saw  that  the  ob- 
server was  no  other  than  Bardour, — the  new 
boy. 


78  BARDOUR. 

"  So,  so,  Mr.  What's-your-name,  that  is  how 
you  do  your  work,  is  it  ?" 

Willy  answered  with  a  kind  of  sound  be- 
tween a  groan  of  impatience  and  a  grunt  of 
dissatisfaction. 

"What  is  that  to  me,  you  would  say,"  con- 
tinued Bardour.  "  Well,  never  mind  ;  do  you 
want  any  help  ?" 

"Not  at  fox  and  geese,"  said  Willy. 

"Pho  !     Shall  I  do  your  gum  for  you  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like,"  replied  the  other. 

"  Well,  I  do  like,  then,  for  once  in  a  way. 
It  is  dreadfully  dull ;  you  seem  to  be  such  a 
queer  set  here.  I  want  somebody  to  talk  to, 
and  you  are  the  best-looking  of  the  lot,  though 
I  can't  say  much  for  your  beauty.  However, 
you  may  do;  so  let  me  see  what  you  are  stick- 
ing at.  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Here  go^,  then ; 
give  me  your  pencil." 

"  But  you  must  not  be  seen  doing  the  sum 
for  me,"  said  Willy. 

"Must  not !     Who  says  I  must  not  ?" 

*  Mr.  Harpur  won't  let  me  off  so." 

"Mr.  Harpur  may  do  what  he  likes.  What 
do  I  care  for  Mr.  Harpur  ?  However,  I'll  do 
the  sum  on  my  own  slate,  at  my  own  -desk. 
Mr.  Harpur  can't  hinder  me  from  that,  I  sup- 
pose ;  and  you  can  do  as  you  like  about  copy- 
ing it  afterward." 

Willy  was  not  over-scrupulous ;  and  when,  a 
little  while  afterward,  Bardour  laid  before  him 


EARDOUR.  79 

the  slate  half  covered  with  figures,  he  copied 
them  upon  his  own,  which  he  took  up  to  the 
teacher's  desk.  The  sum  was  correct,  and 
Willy  was  released. 

"  Gome  now,"  said  Bardour,  "let  us  go  out, 
and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  these  fellows, 
and  the  masters." 

We  will  not  follow  the  boys  into  the  play- 
ground, for  their  conversation  there  was  not 
particularly  edifying.  Let  us  take  a  passing 
glance  at  their  characters. 

Willy  was  one  of  a  numerous  class.  He  was 
not  a  genius — few  boys  are  geniuses — nor  was 
he  a  block-head ;  neither  was  he  very  indolent, 
when  his  mind  or  his  body  could  be  roused  to 
exertion — otherwise  he  was.  We  have  seen 
that  he  preferred  that  another  should  do  his 
sum  rather  than  be  at  the  trouble  of  taxing  his 
own  brains,  and  that  he  had  no  objection  that 
a  law  should  be  broken  in  the  process.  This 
was  but  a  specimen  of  his  general  conduct. 
Like  a  person  who,  having  good  sound  legs  of 
his  own,  should  choose  to  use  a  crutch  until  a 
crutch  would  be  almost  necessary  to  his  moving ; 
so  Willy  had  weakened  and  crippled  his  powers 
of  mind  by  thinking  and  acting,  not  as  his  con- 
science dictated,  nor  after  independent  and  due 
reflection,  but  in  imitation  of  others,  and  lazily 
yielding  to  the  stronger  or  more  active  mind 
of  some  one  who  might  happen  to  be  about 
him.     Thus,  though  one  of  the  oldest  in  the 


80  BAEDOUR. 

school,  "Willy  was  not  a  very  bright  scholar, 
nor  was  he,  at  any  time,  to  be  greatly  depend- 
ed upon  for  steadfastness  in  a  right  course. 
Like  "  a  wave  of  the  sea,"  he  was  "  driven  of 
the  wind  and  tossed." 

The  new  boy,  Bar  dour,  was  a  different  sort 
of  character  altogether.  He  was  a  bold, 
daring,  but  unprincipled  lad  ;  quick  at  mischief 
and  deceit;  quick,  also,  to  learn.  His  training 
had  been  unfavourable  to  his  moral  character, 
so  had  been  the  circumstances  of  his  early  life; 
and,  thus  far,  he  was  to  be  pitied.  His  parents 
were  dead ;  and  he  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
house  of  his  uncle,  under  the  instruction  of  a 
private  tutor.  The  uncle  cared  much  about 
horses  and  dogs,  and  thought  little  about  his 
nephew :  the  tutor  cared  much  for  his  salary, 
and  therefore  had  not  neglected  his  pupil's 
head ;  but  he  had  done  nothing  in  the  right- 
education  of  his  heart.  It  was  not  likely  that 
he  should  have  done  much  in  this  way,  for  he 
was  secretly  an  infidel  and  a  profligate  man, 
though  a  good  scholar.  This  sad  deficiency  in 
the  most  important  part  of  the  boy's  education 
had  not  been  supplied  from  any  other  quarter. 
His  companions  had  been  chosen  from  the 
stable-yard,  where  he  had  readily  imbibed 
much  that  was  vicious — nothing  that  was  cre- 
ditable or  useful,  unless  we  may  except  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  manage  a  horse,  or  to 
train  a  puppy. 


BARDOUR.  81 

In  consequence  of  some  discreditable  trans- 
action, in  which  both  Bardour  and  his  private 
tutor  were  involved,  the  latter  had  been  dis- 
missed in  disgrace,  and  the  former  was  "packed 
off,"  as  his  uncle  expressed  it,  to  school,  where 
he  would  be  more  strictly  looked  after.  But, 
unhappily,  the  uncle  had  not  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  put  the  school-master  on  his  guard,  for 
he  said,  (or  thought  if  he  did  not  say,)  "  It  is 
the  master's  business  to  find  out  what  the  boy 
is  made  of,  and  not  mine  to  be  speaking  against 
my  own  nephew."  Besides  this,  it  is  probable 
that  the  uncle  did  not  really  know  much  of  his 
nephew's  character,  or  did  not  attach  much' 
importance  to  what  was  wrong  in  it.  Without 
warning,  therefore,  and  without  any  extraordi- 
nary caution,  an  adept  in  low  vice  was  intro- 
duced into  the  school,  the  play-ground  and  the 
sleeping-room. 

As  to  Willy,  the  unexpected  condescension 
of  the  new  boy,  whose  uncle,  being  "  a  judge, 
or  a  governor,  or  something  of  that  kind,"  was 
consequently,  in  his  estimation,  very  great  and 
grand,  took  him  by  surprise,  and  absolutely 
charmed  him.  He  quite  forgot  his  predetermi- 
nation not  to  like  him,  and  strutted  with  new- 
found importance  by  Bardour's  side  through  the 
play-ground. 

Mansfield  smiled  to  see  it;  but  for  a  few 
minutes,  he  joined  the  two  boys. 

"I  shall  not  like  him,"  thought  he  to  him- 


82  BAKDOUR. 

self,  as  he  walked  away ;  "  Willy  was  right 
there." 

"Who  is  that  prig?"  asked  Bardour  of  his 
companion,  when  Mansfield  was  out  of  hearing. 

"It  is  Mansfield;  he  is  a  great  favourite  with 
the  master." 

"Oh,  he  is,  is  he  ?  He  will  be  no  favourite 
with  we,  I  suspect.  But  what  sort  of  a  fellow 
is  he?" 

Willy  replied,  by  telling  how  Mansfield  had 
refused  to  help  him  out  of  his  trouble  with  the 
"horrid  sum." 

"  Indeed !  Ah !  he  is  one  of  the  right 
honourables,  I  see.  He  won't  do  for  me, 
then,"  said  Bardour. 

And  thus  he  went  on.  In  one  hour,  many 
injurious  impressions  had  been  made  upon 
Willy's  very  susceptible  mind ;  and  it  was  pre- 
pared to  receive  more. 


"  Evil  communications  corrupt  good  man- 
ners." Bardour  had  not  been  many  weeks  at 
school  before  a  very  perceptible  change  had 
taken  place  in  many  of  the  scholars.  A  spirit 
of  in  subordination  had  sprung  up,  and  habits 
of  determined  indolence  or  laziness  seemed  to 
have  been  suddenly  formed.  Quarrels,  too, 
were  more  frequent :  the  school  was  broken 
into  small  bands  or  parties,  which  were  con- 
stantly at  a  feud  with  each  other ;  and,  amon 


o 


EAUDOTJK.  SC 

one  set  especially,  there  was  a  sad  deterioration 
of  morals. 

This  state  of  affairs  was  very  uncomfortable 
to  all,  and  it  must  have  been  very  harassing 
and  perplexing  to  the  kind-tempered  and  con- 
scientious ma*ster  and  his  assistants  :  the  more 
so,  that  they  could  not  exactly  discover  the 
cause  of  the  mischief  which  was  too  certainly 
going  on.  Indeed,  they  were  not  aware  of  the 
extent  of  it ;  and  hoped  that  it  was  merely  a 
temporary  estrangement  from  right  feeling, 
which  would  soon  subside  if  not  too  particularly 
noticed.  If  they  suspected  Bardour  as  th# 
fomenter  of  these  new  and  unusual  troubles, 
they  had  no  particular  grounds  for  suspicion. 
He  seemed  innocent  enough. 

In  no  boy  was  the  alteration  more  visible 
than  in  Willy.  Formerly,  when  under  the 
influence  of  Mansfield,  his  conduct  had  been 
free  from  any  gross  misbehaviour  ;  but  now  that 
his  allegiance  was  transferred  to  a  new  leader, 
he  was  constantly  rebellious,  sullen,  and  in 
disgrace. 

Between  Mansfield  and  Bardour  there  seemed 
to  be  a  strange  antipathy ;  not  openly  shown, 
indeed,  in  disputes  and  violent  altercations,  but 
not  the  less  complete.  They  avoided  each 
other,  rarely  speaking  together,  and  never 
joining  in  kindred  amusements.  In  fact,  they 
had  no  kindred  amusements.  Mansfield  was 
a  thorough  hearty  player ;   he  could  throw  all 


84  BARBOUR. 

his'  energies  into  any  game — cricket,  football, 
or  even  marbles.  Bardour  sneered  at  this  :  he 
never  played. 

"What  a  big  baby  that  Mansfield  is  !"  said 
he,  as  he  sauntered  across  the  playground, 
accompanied  by  Willy  and  anothef  satellite  or 
two;  "what  a  baby!  Look  at  him,  playing 
at  marbles  with  Robinson  and  a  lot  of  little 
fellows,  and  as  eager  at  it  as  if  it  was  the  best 
thing  in  life.     Bah  !    it  makes  me  sick." 

Willy  tried  to  imitate  the  sneer;  but  he 
could  not  manage  it  with  a  good  grace.  Had 
%e  truth  been  told,  he  liked  a  game  of  marbles 
too,  and  he  envied  Mansfield's  playfellows. 
There  was  a  time  when  he  would  gladly  have 
asked  to  join  them :  but  it  would  have  been 
treason  against  his  leader  to  do  so  now,  so  he 
sauntered  on. 

But  though  Bardour  pretended  to  feel  con- 
tempt for  Mansfield,  he  could  not  despise  him, 
however  much  he  might  try  to  do  it.  He 
therefore  kept  aloof  from  him,  and  contented 
himself  with  reviling  him  at  a  safe  distance, 
and  with  endeavouring  to  weaken  his  influence. 
In  this  he  succeeded,  and  though  Willy  perhaps 
felt  it  to  be  both  ungenerous  and  ungrateful  to 
join  in  this  cabal,  he  did  not  the  less  join  in  it. 
What  could  he  do  ?  He  must  have  some  one 
to  look  up  to,  admire,  and  imitate.  If  he  kept 
on  good  terms  with  Mansfield,  he  must  break 
with   Bardour ;    and,  upon  the  whole,  it  was 


BARDOUR,  85 

more  convenient  to  be  Bardour's  friend  than 
Mansfield's.  He  made  his  choice  accordingly, 
and  kept  to  it. 

And  thus,  amid  confusion,  discomfort,  sus- 
picions, and  jealousies,  of  which  no  one  could 
trace  the  exact  cause,  the  school  broke  up  for 
the  holidays.  All  were  unusually  glad  to  get 
away ;  and  the  puzzled  teachers  could  only 
hope  that  at  the  close  of  the  vacation  a  new 
leaf  would  be  turned. 


The  holidays  were  over,  and  most  of  the 
boys  returned  to  school.  Bardour  and  Willy 
were  still  close  companions ;  by  day  they 
walked  together,  and  talked  together,  generally 
apart  from  their  school-fellows.  They  occupied 
the  same  room  by  night;  and  to  them  the 
remainder  of  this  story  will  principally  relate. 

"  What  nonsense  all  this  is  !"  said  Bardour, 
as,  one  summer's  evening,  after  prayer-time, 
the  boys  took  a  customary  stroll  in  the  play- 
ground, before  going  to  bed. 

"What  is  nonsense  ?"  Willy  asked. 

"  What  ?  Why,  these  prayers.  Prayers  at 
morning,  prayers  at  night,  with  long  chapters : 
then  there  is  church  twice  every  Sunday,  and 
a  long  lecture  in  the  school-room  into  the 
bargain. 

Willy  had  heard  such  things  before  from  his 
companion,  and  he  was  past  being  shocked 
now :    still  he  felt  uncomfortable,  for  he  had 


86  BAEDOUK. 

been  trained  to  respect,  at  least,  the  outward 
observances  of  religion.  It  would  have  been 
well  for  him  if  he  had  had  firmness  and 
independence  of  mind  and  thought  to  turn 
from  such  communications  when  they  were  first 
offered.  He  might  then  have  been  kept  from 
that  rapid  and  fearful  progress  which,  com- 
mencing with  "  walking  in  the  counsel  of  the 
ungodly,"  leads  on  to  "sitting  in  the  seat  of 
the  scornful,"  and  brings  the  soul  nearer  and 
nearer  the  verge  of  eternal  ruin.  But  even 
firmness  and  independence  of  mind,  though 
combined  with  respect  for  the  outward  forms 
of  godliness,  are  but  poor  safeguards  against 
temptation  when  the  power  of  godliness  is 
wanting,  and  dependence  upon  Christ  for  help 
in  time  of  need  is  unthought  of. 

How  happy  are  they  who  have  obeyed  the 
heavenly  injunction,  "  My  son,  give  ME  thine 
heart;"  who  have  cried  earnestly  to  a  holy 
and  gracious  God,  "  Create  in  me  a  clean 
heart,  and  renew  a  right  spirit  within  me;" 
who  have  experienced  the  purifying  influences 
of  the  atoning  blood  which  cleanseth  from  all 
sin,  and  the  sanctifying  power  of  the  Spirit 
of  God ! 

Yes,  and  how  safe  are  such,  compared  with 
those  who  have  desired  and  felt  no  such  trans- 
forming power.  Give  your  heart  to  Christ, 
then,  young  friend — schoolboy  though  you  be. 
You  need  such  a  Protector  and  Guide— ay, 


BARDOUR.  87 

and  Saviour  also — as  only  he  can  be  to  you. 
Without  him,  his  salvation  and  his  help,  your 
wisdom,  strength,  firmness,  and  independence 
of  mind,  are  folly  and  weakness.  Yourself  a 
rebel  against  his  government  and  his  claims, 
how  will  you  be  prepared  to  resist  the  importu- 
nities of  your  fellow-rebels — differing  from  you 
in  this  only,  that  they  are  a  little  older — to  go 
on  from  one  step  to  another  in  iniquity,  until, 
like  them,  you  have  learned  to  glory  in  your 
shame  ?  Give  your  heart  to  Christ,  then ;  lay 
hold  of  his  strength  ;  make  him  your  refuge — 
his  salvation  your  song — his  law  your  delight : 
then,  and  then  only,  will  you  be  safe. 

Willy  had  never  thought  much  of  these 
things,  and — the  truth  may  as  well  be  told — 
like  a  very  great  number  of  school-boys,  he 
cared  for  none  of  them.  He  did  not  particu- 
larly wish  or  intend  to  be  very  wicked ;  nay, 
probably  he  thought  religion  to  be  a  very  good 
thing  for  those  who  liked  it,  for  older  people 
especially ;  but  as  for  himself,  why  he  did  well 
enough  without  it,  for  the  present. 

We  need  not  continue  the  dialogue  we  have 
interrupted,  nor  repeat  the  wicked  folly  and 
ribaldry  uttered  by  Bardour,  who  avowed  him- 
self to  be  an  infidel,  and  that  he  had  been  mis- 
led by  his  tutor. 

The  confession  shocked  Willy,  who  made 
some  feeble  efforts  on  the  side  of  truth ;  but 
Bardour  ridiculed  him,  and  told  him  that  he 


88  BARDOUR. 

would  lend  him  a  book  that  would  soon  con- 
vince him,  but  which  he  must  not  let  anybody 
see.     Just  then  the  evening  bell  rang. 

"  There's  the  bell !  We  must  go  in  now," 
said  Willy,  in  a  sort  of  mental  stupor.  "It  is 
bed-time." 

In  another  minute  the  play-ground  was  de- 
serted, and  the  boys  retired ;  some  of  them,  in 
simple  faith  and  child-like  trust — may  we  not 
believe  ? — to  commit  themselves  to  God,  through 
Christ,  in  hope  of  pardon,  peace,  and  sanc- 
tification ;  some  of  them,  it  may  be,  to  hurry 
through  a  form  of  devotion,  ere  closing  their 
eyes  in  sleep ;  and  some  caring  but  little  about 
either  the  form  or  the  spirit  of  prayer. 

Among  these  last  was  Willy.  Ever  since  he 
had  been  the  chamber-companion  of  Bardour, 
he  had  been  ashamed  to  be  seen  bending  be- 
fore the  God  of  all  his  mercies. 

He  went  to  bed,  however,  somewhat  dis- 
turbed in  mind.  Bardour  had  never  gone  so  far 
before ;  and  to  Willy  there  was,  after  all,  some- 
thing rather  awful  in  the  character  which  his* 
friend  had  assumed, and  boasted  of.  An  infi- 
del !  He,  a  boy,  and  yet  an  infidel !  Well, 
he  would  think  about  it. 

And  then  there  was  the  book :  he  did  not 
think  he  shoald  read  it.  He  did  not  particu- 
larly v  ant  to  be  an  infidel.  To  be  sure,  it  was 
very  troublesome  to  be  always  making  a  sort 
of  fuss  about  religion,  or  to  be  always  thinking 


BARDOUR.  89 

about  it ;  but  then — and  then — and  then  he 
fell  asleep. 

The  morning  found  Willy  refreshed,  and  the 
gloomy  chill  about  his  heart  gone.  "What 
nonsense  Bardour  did  talk  last  night,  to  be 
sure,"  thought  he,  as  he  put  on  his  clothes. 
"  He  was  joking,  no  doubt." 

No,  he  was  not ;  he  was  never  in  more 
serious  earnest.  It  may  seem  strange,  but  it 
is  nevertheless  true,  that  this  boy  Bardour, 
shrewd,  bold,  and  daring,  yet  cunning,  had, 
under  the  vile  tuition  of  a  base,  designing  man, 
been  led  to  fancy  himself  a  disbeliever  of  the 
Bible.  When  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  read 
it,  he  had 

"Read  to„doubt,  or  read  to  scorn;" 

and  when  he  heard  it,  it  was  with  a  mind 
steeped  in  prejudice  and  dislike. 

Not  that  he  understood  what  he  was  talking 
about  when  he  took  upon  himself  to  pass  his 
judgment  upon  it ;  but  this  was  of  little  mo- 
ment to  him.  He  could  talk  ;  and  he  fancied 
he  talked  very  wisely :  this  was  enough. 

Besides,  it  was  very  convenient  for  him  to 
think  he  had  no  faith  in  a  book  which  con- 
stantly condemned  his  thoughts  and  practices. 
Moreover,  there  would  be  some  gratification  to 
his  mind — some  credit  to  himself — if  he  could 
make  a  convert.  He  was  quite  serious,  there- 
fore, in  his  attempt  upon  his  young  companion. 


90  BARDOUR. 

Satan,  the  great  adversary  of  God  and  man, 
xias  a  good  many  agents  in  the  world ;  and  this 
boy  was  one  of  them. 

"  Here  is  the  book  I  spoke  to  you  about," 
said  he  to  Willy  the  next  day.  "Keep  it  close. 
They  don't  pry  much  into  what  we  read  here, 
that's  one  comfort." 

Willy  took  the  book.  He  -did  not  'wish — 
nay,  so  much  was  he  in  the  habit  of  submitting 
to  the  mind  and  will  of  another,  that  he  hardly 
dared — to  refuse  it.  "I  need  not  read  it," 
thought  he. 

But  he  did  read  it.  At  first,  the  daring  pro- 
faneness  it  contained  made  him  feel  uneasy ; 
but  these  feelings  soon  went  off,  and,  by  little 
and  little,  as  he  could  do  it  unobserved,  Willy 
read  the  book  through,  and  was  vain  of  having 
done  so.  Thenceforward  he  could  listen  to 
Bardour's  frothy  declamations  against  the 
Bible,  and  the  religion  of  the  Bible,  unmoved. 
He  could  even  join  with  him  in  jeering  at  ho- 
liness, and  in  mimicking  the  solemn  language 
of  devotion.  Still  all  this  was  a  secret  be- 
tween the  two  boys ;  and  so  well  did  they  keep 
the  secret  that,  though  they  revelled  in  their 
sin,  they  were,  yet  undetected. 

This  was  not  all.  We  have  spoken  of  one 
book  of  Bardour's.  He  had  others — vile  and 
polluting  to  the  imagination — and  these,  one 
by  one,  he  cautiously  put  into  the  hands  of  his 
weak-minded  associate. 


BAEDOUR.  91 

Boys,  dear  boys,  happy  are  you  if  you  carry 
in  your  looks — whatever  may  be  your  com- 
plexion or  form  of  features — so  calm,  placid, 
and  outspoken  a  love  of  purity  and  regard  for 
decency,  as  to  compel  the  shameless  to  be 
silent  in  your  presence.  Happy  are  you  still, 
if — should  the  word  be  spoken — your  honest 
indignation  rises  at  the  insulting  impurity,  and 
causes  the  "vile  person,"  whoever  he  may  be, 
to  feel  himself  "contemned,"  and  to  shrink 
abashed  into  the  concealment  of  his  own  pol- 
luted mind.  Be  it  ever  so  with  you.  Beware 
of  tampering  with  such  a  snare  to  your  soul  as 
is  to  be  found  in  "filthy  conversation,"  and  in 
the  pages  of  many  a  book.  Be  assured  that 
no  yirtuous  friendship  can  be  formed  with  a 
school-fellow,  whatever  may  be  his  talents  or 
acquirements,  who  can  venture  to  introduce  the 
former ;  and  that  no  book  is  safe  for  you  to 
read  which  you  would  hide  from  a  mother's  or 
a  sister's  eye.  "Be  sober,  be  vigilant,"  young 
friends ;  and  put  far  from  you  "  the  instruction 
that  causeth  to  err."  It  rests  much  with  your- 
selves whether  or  not  you  will  be  contaminated 
by  corrupt  communications  and  bad  books.  If 
you  will  but  set  your  heart  and  your  face  like 
a  rock  against  them,  not  forgetting  to  seek — 
but,  above  all  things,  seeking — that  pure  wis- 
dom which  cometh  from  above,  and  making 
God,  through  Jesus  Christ,  your   refuge  and 


92  BARDOUR. 

your  strength,  you  may  walk  unharmed  through 
even  worse  dangers  than  these  : — 


"  Thrice  happy  youth  !  thy  Maker's  care 
Shall  keep  thee  from  the  fowler's  snare : 
Satan  the  fowler,  who  betrays 
Unguarded  souls  a  thousand  ways." 

But  if  you  do  not  thus  act,  and,  on  the  con- 
trary, invite  the  evil  communications  of  those 
who  are  far  advanced  in  shamelessness,  you 
will  not,  it  may  be,  have  far  to  seek,  nor  will 
all  the  vigilance  of  teachers  or  parents  shut 
them  out.  The  poison  will  do  its  work ;  the 
ear  and  the  eye  will  load  the  memory  with  de- 
filement, and  the  stain  will  not  come  out — no, 
it  will  not.  Well  did  the  wise  king  of  Israel 
know  this  when  he  wrote,  "Enter  not  into  the 
path  of  the  wicked,  and  go  not  in  the  way  of 
evil  men.  Avoid  it,  pass  not  by  it,  turn  from 
it,  and  pass  away."  Prov.  iv.  14,  15. 

But,  once  more  and  again,  we  earnestly 
counsel  you  to  seek  the  pardon  of  your  own 
sins,  through  the  great  atonement  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  and  the  influences  of  God's  Holy 
Spirit  to  sanctify  the  soul.  Without  these,  you 
have  no  safeguard.  With  these,  you  will  be 
strong,  (though  with  a  strength  not  your  own,) 
to  resist  the  allurements  of  vice  and  vicious 
companions.  Remember  always  WHO  it  is  that 
is  "  able  to  keep  you  from  falling."  Trust 
Him,  young  friends — trust  Him. 


BAHDOUR.  Ud 

About  two  miles  from  the  school  was  a  vil- 
lage notorious  for  the  ignorance  and  depravity 
of  its  inhabitants,  and  also  for  a  large  fair  an- 
nually held  in  it,  which  was  equally  notorious 
for  its  scenes  of  profligacy  and  vice.  Many 
attempts  to  abolish  this  fair  had  been  made, 
but  unavailingly. 

Boys  are  not  very  wise  in  such  matters. 
Year  after  year,  as  the  fair  time  drew  near, 
some  of  the  schoolfellows  of  whom  we  write 
were  apt  to  become  discontented.  They  thought 
it  hard  to  be  kept  shut  up  in  school  while  so 
many  were  enjoying  liberty  and  fun.  They 
could  see  no  such  great  harm  in  going  to  a  fair 
once  in  a  while^  and  considered  it  "  too  bad" 
that  their  master  should  be  so  particular. 
I  He  might  as  well  give  us  one  day  out  of  the 
three,"  said  they,  as  regularly  as  the  year 
rolled  round ;  "we  would  not  get  into  any  mis- 
chief.    Where  is  the  good  of  being  so  strict?" 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say,  that  if  such 
complaints  and  longings  as  these  reached  the 
ears  of  the  master,  they  did  not  move  him  in 
the  wished-for  direction.  He  was  inexorable, 
and  took  no  notice  of  them.  The  fair,  indeed  ! 
Go  to  the  fair  ! 

A  few  days  before  the  fair,  in  the  year  of 
Bardour's  pupilage,  the  annual  restlessness 
commenced.  It  was  more  than  usually  strong, 
for  the  spirit  of  insubordination  of  which  we 
have  spoken  gave  it  life  and  activity. 


94  BARDOUR. 

Around  B ardour  was  gathered  a  group  of 
the  repining  ones.  He  was  now  the  acknow- 
ledged leader  in  any  thing  denoting  rebellion, 
though  still  he  carried  on  his  opposition  to 
authority  with  an  air  of  a  good-natured  dash, 
which  made  it  sometimes  difficult  for  his 
teachers  to  be  very  angry  with  him.  They 
did  not  know  the  worst  part  of  his  character. 

"All  nonsense,  Bowler;  I  tell  you  we  will 
go — we  must;  I  would  not  lose  the  fun  for 
anything.  You  have  no  idea  what  sport  we 
could  have." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  if  we  could  get  there ;  but 
what  is  the  use  of  talking  about  it  ?  We  can't 
go,  you  know,  and — " 

"  Nonsense  ! — can't  go  !  I  say  again,  the 
master  will  let  us  go  if  we  ask  him." 

"No,  no,  no  !"  exclaimed  half  a  dozen  voices 
at  once. 

"Was  he  ever  asked?"  inquired  Bar  dour. 

No,  never,  certainly — all  were  sure  of  that ; 

it   was   too   well    known   what   Mr.   D 's 

sentiments  about  the  fair  were. 

"Why,"  said  one,  "he  was  one  that  tried, 
two  or  three  years  ago,  to  get  it  put  down. 
The  idea  of  asking  him  to  let  us  go  !" 

"Well,  for  all  that,  I  don't,see  any  thing  so 
preposterous  in  the  idea,"  said  Bardour;  "and 
I  vote  for  asking  leave." 

"All    very   fine,"  replied   Bowler;     "but 
who'll  'bell  the  cat?'" 


BARDOUR.  95 

*  "  Oh,  we  will  all  go  in  a  string ;  or  what  dc 
you  say  to  a  round  robin  ?"  • 

No,  no,  oh  dear  no  :  all  hung  back  in  alarm 
at  the  very  mention  of  it. 

"What  a  set  of  cowards  you  all  are  !  What 
is  there  to  be  afraid  of?.  Well,  if  you 
won't  I  will — I  and  friend  Willy  here.  We 
will  go  at  once  and  ask  for  the  holiday — eh, 
Willy  ?" 

Willy  would  gladly  have  retreated  from  such 
undesirable  pre-eminence ;  but  from  being 
Bardour's  companion  he  had  become  almost  his 
slave.  He  dared  not  refuse.  He  tried,  how- 
ever, to  express  his  dissent.  "  What  will  be 
the  use?"  he  began  to  ask. 

"  We'll  see,"  replied  his  bolder  companion. 
"  Come  along,  he's  just  gone  into  school — 
come;"  and  he  half  dragged  his  friend  along 
over  the  playground. 

They  soon  returned  to  the  half-scared*  boys. 
Willy  looked  very  sheepish ;  Bardour  very 
furious;  and  he  applied  some  opprobrious 
names  to  the  head-master  in  a  not  very  subdued 
tone,  as  he  mingled  with  the  rest. 

"I  told  you  it  would  be  of  no  use,"  said  Willy ; 
i  and  you  have  only  got  me  into  a  scrape — you 
have." 

"  What  did  he  say  ? — what  ? — what  ?"  asked 
the  gaping  group,  of  their  deputation. 

u  Say  !"  repeated  Bardour,  fiercely :  "go  and 
ask  yourselves  if  you  want  to  know.     If  you 


96  BARDOUR. 

had  not  been  a  pack  of  cowards  you  would 
have  Iftiown  without  being  told." 

"No  more  a  coward  than  you,"  said  one  of 
the  bojs  thus  taunted ;  and  a  quarrel  ensued, 
which  almost  ended  in  blows.  But  it  passe* 
off,  and  very  little  more  was  said  about  the 
fair :  the  subject  seemed  to  be  dropped  by 
common  consent.  It  was  noticed,  however, 
and  afterward  remembered,  that  during  the 
succeeding  days  Bardour  and  Willy  kept  almost 
aloof  from  their  companions ;  that  they  were 
constantly  in  close  private  confabulation  ;  and 
that  Bardour  especially  was  remarkable  gleeful.- 
Some  great  secret  seemed  to  exist  between 
them. 


Oxe  day — it  was  the  third  day  of  the  fair — - 
as  the  boys  were  about  to  leave  the  breakfast- 
room,  *they  were  requested  to  remain.  The 
teachers  looked  grave ;  and  the  scholars, 
catching  the  infection  of  gravity,  looked  so  too, 
though  why  they  knew  not. 

Presently,  the  master  entered.  The  boys 
had  seen  him  before,  when  they  had  met  for 
morning  prayers,  and  the  change  that  had 
taken  place  was  almost  alarming — quite  alarm- 
ing to  guilty  consciences,  if  any  were  there. 
Accompanying  the  master  was  a  stranger, 
p3habbily  dressed,  dirty,  unshorn,  and  otherwise 
ill-looking. 


Scijool  Sags  KebfetoetJ. 


Accompanying  the  master  was  a  stranger.      p.  96. 


B  ARDOUR.         «  97 

'•What's  the  matter  now?"  whispered  one 
boy  to  his  neighbour. 

"  Hallo,"  said  another,  in  an  equally  sub- 
dued tone,  "look  at  Willy.  Why,  he  is  as 
pale  as  a  turnip,  and  trembles  like  a  leaf;  what 
is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?" 

This  was  bye-play.     Meanwhile  Mr.  D 

looked  sorrowfully  around,  then  turned  to  the 
man,  who  stood  a  little  nearer  the  door — 
"  Have  the  kindness,  my  friend,  to  point  them 
out  to  me,"  said  he. 

"Them! — point  them  out,"  repeated  one 
wondering  boy  to  his  next  companion  as  the 
man  turned  his  inflamed  eyes  from  one  face  to 
another. 

What  could  it  mean  ?  Well,  in  this  case 
ignorance  was  bliss. 

The  man  was  not  long  in  his  survey. 
"  Them's  them,"  he  said,  pointing  with  one 
hand  to  Bardour,  with  the  other  to  Willy.  It 
scarcely  needed  this,  for  their  looks  condemned 
the  two  boys — Willy  especially.  Bardour  tried 
to  brave  out  the  accusation,  whatever  it  might 
be,  and  to  put  on  a  look  of  innocence.  But  it 
was  a  poor  attempt. 

"  Come  with  me,  you  two,"  said  Mr.  D . 

•"Why,  sir?  What  have  I  done?"  asked 
Bardour  :  but  the  words  seemed  to  die  away 
on  his  lips,  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply  he 
slowly  left  the  room,  accompanied  by  Willy. 

"  The  boys  may  go  into  school  now,  Mr. 
9 


98  #    BARDOUR. 

Weston,"  said  the  master,  before  he  withdrew : 
and  they  went  accordingly. 

"  What  is  it  all  about,  Mr.  Weston  ?"  asked 
one,  as  they  went :  but  Mr.  Weston  could  not 
or  would  not  say. 

The  head-master  did  not  enter  the  school- 
room that  morning,  nor  did  Bardour,  nor  Willy ; 
and  lessons  were  not  very  perfectly  repeated, 
nor  sums  very  correctly  or  expeditiously 
worked,  nor  copies  and  exercises  very  neatly 
written.  In  the  afternoon  a  half-holiday  was 
given,  and  a  long  walk  taken.  Bardour  and 
Willy  were  still  absent,  and  the  boys  wearied 
themselves  in  vain  in  striving  to  fathom  the 
mystery. 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  still  no  fresh  light 
was  thrown  upon  the  subject,  except  that  it 
was  known  that  the  two  boys — whatever  had 
been  their  offence— were  removed  from  their 
former  bedroom,  and  were  seperately  confined 
in  two  of  the  topmost  chambers  of  the  house, 
and  that  they  took  their  meals  and  continued 
their  studies  thus  in  solitude.  What  could  they 
have  done  ? 

The  holidays  came,  and  the  two  prisoners- 
had  not  been  seen.  The  holidays  were  over ; 
and  when  the  boys — those  who  had  not  done 
with  school — returned,  Willy  was  among  the 
number,  and  he  took  his  former  place  at  his 
desk,  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Bar- 
dour was  no  more  seen. 


BARDOUR.  99 

Willy's  old  companions  were  generous. 
Much  as  they  burned  to  know  the  secret,  they 
forbore  to  ask  it  of  him.  He  was  generally 
silent ;  and  gradually  the  remembrance  of  his 
separation  and  presumed  disgrace  died  away. 
But,  after  all,  the  mystery  was  not  completely 
hidden  ;  and  some  such  tradition  as  this  long 
hung  about  the  place,  and  was  handed  down 
from  one  set  of  boys  to  the  next : — 

"  Bardour — ah  !  he  was  a  sad  fellow :  he  did 
net  stay  long;  but  whether  he  was  taken  away 
or  turned  away,  no  one  knows  but  the  head- 
master— at  least  none  of  the  boys  ever  knew. 

"  There  was  a  strange  piece  of  work  one  fair 
time.  Bardour  wanted  to  go  to  the  fair,  and 
of  course  he  was  refused.  So  what  did  he  do 
but  persuade  another  of  the  boys,  who  slept 
with  him  in  the  little  room  that  overlooks  the 
playground,  to  get  out  of  the  window  at  night 
(the  window  is  safely  barred  up  now)  and  start 
off  to  the  fair ;  and  this  was  how  they  managed 
it : — Just  before  the  fair  time,  a  young  fellow 
who  had  been  a  groom,  or  something  of  that 
kind,  at  Bardour's  uncle's,  came  to  live  near 
the  school,  and  to  work  at  the  livery  stables ; 
and  he  used  to  come. at  night  over  the  fence 
into  the  playground,  and  help  the  boys  to  get 
down,  and  then  went  with  them  to  the  fair. 
They  followed  this  plan  two  nights.  • 

"  And  pretty  pranks  they  played  there — 
dancing  in  the  booths,  gambling,  and  drinking, 


100  BARDOUR. 

and  more  than  that  till  two  or  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  then  getting  back  to  bed. 
But  it  was  found  out  in  this  way.  The  groom 
passed  some  bad  money  at  one  of  the  booths ; 
and  after  they  had  left,  the  man  to  whom  he 
gave  it  made  the  discovery,  and  followed  the 
three  all  the  way  to  the  playground,  and  saw 
the  two  boys  go  in  at  the  window.  This  was 
enough  for  him  ;  so  the  next  morning  he  came 
and  made  his  complaint.  He  knew  the  two 
boys  at  once,  and  they  were  kept  away  f»om 
the  others  all  the  rest  of  that  half  year. 

"  And  this  was  not  all.  The  boy  who  went 
with  Bardour  was  horribly  frightened  at  what 
he  had  done,  and  turned  evidence  against  him; 
and  a  shocking  tale  he  told.  Bardour's  boxes 
were  examined,  and  several  books  were  found 
— such  books  !  Bardour  declared  they  were 
not  his,  that  he  knew  nothing  about  them,  and 
that  somebody  else  must  have  put  'them  there ; 
but  of  course  that  would  not  go  down  with  the 
master. 

"Willy, — Bardour's  companion, — came  back 
the  next  half  year,  and  nothing  more  was  said 
or  done  to  him ;  only  the  master  kept  a  sharp 
look-out  after  him,  till,  he  left  school ;  and  so 
he  did  after  the  rest  of  the  boys,  especially  the 
bigger  ones.  And  as  to  Willy,  he  was  not 
very  fond  of  talking  about  Bardour ;  but  one 
way  or  other,  a  bit  at  a  time,  thus  much  of  the 
story  came  out." 


BARDOUR.  101 

This  legend  conned  over  occasionally,  for 
want  of  other  subjects  of  conversation,  or  by 
way  of  change,  is  not  probably  far  from  the 
truth,  though  it  conveys  not  "  the  whole  truth." 
Indeed,  poor  Willy's  experience  of  the  fearful 
consequences  of  yielding  to  temptation,  and 
the  folly  of  being  led  into  "  almost  all  evil"  by 
the  example  and  persuasion  of  a  strong-minded 
sinner,  was  sufficiently  vivid,  one  would  suppose, 
to  teach  him  a  lesson  for  life.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
he  profited  by  it.  But  though  he  might  be 
sorry — though  he  might  even  sorrow  "  after  a 
godly  sort"  for  what  he  had  done,  and  for  the 
wickedness  into  which  he  had  been  led,  he  could 
never  unlearn  .what  he  had  learned,  nor  be 
"simple  concerning  evil." 

It  is  well,  dear  young  reader,  to  be  brought 
back  from  our  wanderings :  but  is  it  not  better, 
tiring  you,  never  to  wander  at  all  from  the  paths 
of  purity  and  true  wisdom  ?  If  our  old  school- 
fellow Willy  became  penitent,  and  afterward 
loathed  the  sins  into  which  he  had  once  been 
led,  I  am  sure  he  has  often  blushed  with  shame, 
and  has  despised  himself  when  he  has  thought 
of  his  weakness  in  yielding  to  temptation,  and 
the  avidity  with  which  he  became  a  partaker  in 
another's  guilt ;  and  would  be  able  to  give  a  sad 
and  solemn  answer  to  the  question,  "What  fruit 
had  ye  then  in  those  things  whereof  ye  are  now 
ashamed?  for  the  end  of  those  things  is  death." 

But  perhaps  Willy  did  not  really  regret  his 


102  BARDOUR. 

past  folly.  It  may  be  th at  he  never  truly  re- 
pented of  having  given  way  to  the  seductions 
of  vice.  It  is  not  a  thing  improbable  that  the 
vile  books  he  had  been  tempted  to  read,  and 
the  scenes  of  sin  he  had  been  drawn  in  to 
witness,  and  in  which  he  had  been  induced  to 
share,  produced  effects  which  clung  to  his  soul 
like  an  awful  disease ;  and  that  at  length  he 
found  in  his  own  bitter  experience,  that  uwhen 
lust  hath  conceived,  it  bringeth  forth  sin :  and 
sin,  when  it  is  finished,  bringeth  forth  death." 
(James  i.  15.)  It  is  not  long  since  we  saw  one 
who,  like  Willy,  had  been  drawn  away  and  en- 
ticed, when  a  school-boy,  into  shameful  wicked- 
ness. Pale,  haggard,  worn  and  feeble,  he  is 
old  before  his  time,  and  seems  hastening  to  an 
early  grave.  Is  he  ashamed  ?  Does  he  mourn 
his  folly  ?  Has  he  repented  and  sought  mercy  ? 
It  may  be  that  he  has  not ;  but  that,  on  the 
contrary,  his  heart  is  hardened,  and  his  con- 
science "seared  with  a  hot  iron."  Take  care, 
young  reader,  how  you  venture  to  disregard 
the  first  intimations  of  your  conscience  that  you 
are  going  wrong,  for  nothing  is  more  true  than 
that,  generally,  • 

"  Sinners  that  grow  old  in  sin 
Are  hardened  in  their  crimes." 

It  may  be  that  you  have  given  way  to  the 
seductions  of  some  bad,  bold  companion.  Is 
it  so  ?   Listen,  then,  to  the  voice  that  calls  you 


BARDOUR.  103 

to  return — the  voice  of  Divine  mercy  and  com- 
passion :  "  Come  now,  and  let  us  reason  together, 
saith  the  Lord :  though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet, 
they  shall  be  as  white  as  snow ;  though  they 
be  red  like  crimson,  they  shall  be  as  wool." — 
"If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive 
ourselves,  and  the  truth  is  not  in  us.  If  we 
confess  our  sins,  He  is  faithful  and  just  to  for- 
give us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us  from  all 
unrighteousness;"  and  "the  blood  of  Jesus 
Christ,  God's  dear  Son,  cleanseth  us  from  all 
sin."  Isa.  i.  18 :  1  John  i.  7-9. 

"  Return  then,  wanderer,  to  thy  home, 
Thy  Father  calls  for  thee  j 
No  longer  now  an  exile  roam, 
In  guilt  and  misery : 

Return  !   return  ! 

"Return,  0  wanderer,  to  thy  home, 
'Tis  Jesus  calls  for  thee ; 
The  Spirit  and  the  bride  say,  Come. 
Oh,  now  for  refuge  flee  : 

Return  !   return ! 

"  Return,  0  wanderer,  to  thy  home, 
'Tis  madness  to  delay; 
There  are  no  pardons  in  the  tomb, 
And  brief  is  mercy's  day : 

Return !   return  I" 

And  Bardour — what  became  of  him  ?  This 
became  of  him  :  he  soon  cast  off  every  remain- 
ing restraint,  banished  every  virtuous  affection, 
and  became  a  slave  to  his  own  vices.  In  his 
future  life  was  shown  the  baneful   effects  of 


104 


BARDOTJR. 


those  principles  of  •which,  in  youthful  vanity, 
he  had  boasted,  which  "leaving  nothing  above 
us  to  excite  awe,  nor  around  us  to  awaken  ten- 
derness, wage  war  with  heaven  and  with  earth 
— whose  first  object  is  to  dethrone  God,  whose 
next  is  to  destroy  man." 


IV. 

MANSFIELD. 

Mansfield,  the  young  Cumbrian's  friend, 
was  a  noble  boy,  though  by  no  means  faultless. 
Perhaps  he  did  not,  in  every  respect  and  at  all 
times,  seem  amiable,  for  his  manners  were  now 
and  then  rough,  and  his  temper  was  occasion- 
ally uncertain.  He  was  ardent ;  his  ardour 
made  him  sometimes  impetuous,  and  his  impetu- 
osity sometimes  also,  (not  generally,)  led  him 
to  disregard — no,  not  to  disregard,  but  to  lose 
sight,  for  a  moment,  of  the  feelings  of  others, 
and  drove  him  from  the  right  line  of  propriety. 
Nevertheless,  Mansfield  was  a  noble  fellow. 
He  was,  probably,  guilty  of  more  foolish 
actions,  openly  and  undisguisedly,  than  many 
of  his  school-fellows ;  but  never  was  he  known 
to  be  guilty  of  a  mean  one.  His  folly,  such  as 
it  was,  might  involve  him  in  difficulties,  but  he 
never  tried  to  get  out  of  them  by  unworthy 
means. 

In  nothing  did  Mansfield's  character  more 
brightly  and  steadily  shine  than  in  his  utter 
contempt  of  falsehood.  "  I  have  known  him 
and  watched  him  during  the  last  seven  years," 

105 


106  MANSFIELD. 

said  his  master,  after  the  boy  had  left  school, 
"  and  I  never  knew  him,  by  word  or  action, 
attempt  to  deceive  me."  Another  fine  tr^it 
in  Mansfield's  character  was  generosity ;  that 
generosity  which  acknowledges  and  makes 
amends  for  a  fault,  protects  the  weaker  from 
the  oppression  of  the  stronger,  and  gives  up 
the  wish  or  the  will  of  self  to  gratify  the  wish 
or  will  of  another.  Mansfield  never  seemed 
to  think,  or  to  act  upon  the  thought,  "  I  must 
take  care  of  number  one;"  but  he  did  often 
take  care  of  number  two,  three,  four,  or  five, 
as  the  case  might  be. 

A  boy  who  dares  always  to  speak  the  truth, 
to  take  the  part  of  the  oppressed,  and  to  deny 
himself,  must  have  a  great  deal  of  moral  cour- 
age, and  well  deserves  to  be  called  noble.  Do 
you  not  think  so,  young  reader  ? 

Yes,  yes,  you  cannot  doubt  it;  and  you 
think — come,  a  penny  for  your  thoughts,  as 
you  sometimes  say  to  your  school-fellows — 
perhaps — 

A  penny !  Ah,  you  cannot  sell  them  so 
cheap.     Well,  let  us  guess  them. 

You  think  that  you  yourself  have  in  you 
some  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroes  are  made ; 
and  that  you,  too,  on  any  fitting  occasion,  could 
act  very  nobly  in  the  way  of  speaking  the  truth 
fearlessly,  enduring  patiently,  forgiving  inju- 
ries generously,  and  protecting  the  injured 
bravely.     Only  such   opportunities   of  distin- 


MANSFIELD.  107 

guishing  yourself  do  not  often  happen,  and  it 
is  "a  great  bore"  to  be  always  looking  out  for 
them ;  so  that,  when  they  do  present  them- 
selves, they  slip  by  unawares,  and  leave  you  as 
they  found  you— much  like  all  the  rest  of  your 
school-fellows. 

Come  now,  be  honest.  Would  you  not  like 
to  be  a  young  hero  if  you  had  the  chance  ? 
And  do  you  not  sometimes  regret  that  you 
never  had  it  in  your  power  to  do  some  great 
thing  to  prove  your  right  to  that  title  ? 

Ah,  young  friend,  you  will  never  be  a  hero 
if  you  think  after  this  manner.  No  one  is  a 
true  hero,  or  truly  noble,  who  seeks  to  be  so 
only  for  the  sake  of  distinguishing  himself. 
Nor  is  it  in  great  deeds  only  that  true  heroism 
is  shown.  '  No,  no ;  there  are  every-day  heroes 
who  have  never  dreamed  of  being  heroes  at  all ; 
and  among  the  most  truly  noble  are  some  who 
had  not  the  least  idea  of  having  ever  done  any 
thing  to  deserve  so  honourable  a  title. 

Do  you  not  remember  the  words  of  our  Lord, 
I  If  any  man  will  come  after  me,  let  him  deny 
himself,  and  take  up  his  cross  daily,  and  follow 
me?"  Those  who  do  this  in  a  right  spirit  are 
the  true  heroes,  after  all;  and  to  them  every 
day  brings  with  it  some  fresh  test  of  heroism. 


If,  in  our  daily  course,  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find, 
New  treasures  still,  of  countlees  price, 
God  will  provide  for  sacrifice. 


108  MANSFIELD. 

"  Such  is  the  bliss  of  souls  serene, 
When  they  have  sworn,  and  steadfast  meats? 
Counting  the  cost,  in  all  to  espy 
Their  God — in  all  themselves  deny. 

"  Oh  could  we  learn  that  sacrifice, 
What  lights  would  all  around  us  rise  ! 
How  would  our  hearts  with  wisdom  talk 
Along  life's  dullest,  dreariest  walk  ! 

"  The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 
Would  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask ; 
Room  to  deny  ourselves  ;  a  road 
To  bring  us,  daily,  nearer  God." 


Ay,  it  is  in  "  the  trivial  round  and  common 
task"  that  boys,  as  well  as  men,  are  generally 
called  upon  to  show  true  heroism  ;  and  unless 
they  prove  themselves  noble  in  these  little 
matters,  when  there  is  no  fame  nor  praise  to 
be  got  by  it,  they  may  never  do  it  all,  since 
they  may  wait  in  vain  for  those  great  occasions 
of  which  they  sometimes  dream — even  at  mid- 
day. 

We  cannot  tell  how  far  our  old  school-fellow, 
Mansfield,  was  influenced  by  a  right  spirit  in 
all  that  he  did  amiably  and  lovelily.  In  after 
years,  I  think,  he  would  look  back  with  sorrow 
even  on  that  part  of  his  life  which  had  appeared 
to  those  around  him  to  be  the  least  faulty,  and 
feel  that  he  had  then,  perhaps,  been  proud  of  his 
generosity,  moral  courage,  and  self-government, 
like  the  Pharisee,  of  whom  we  read  that  he 
thanked  God  he  was  not  as  other  men.  He 
would  be  very  likely  to  remember  that  then  he 


MANSFIELD.  109 

sought  and  valued  the  praise  and  good  opinion 
of  his  parents  and  teachers  and  school-fellows, 
and  thought  much  more  of  that  than  he  did 
about  pleasing  God. 

No,  we  cannot  tell,  for  it  is  God  alone  who 
searches  the  heart.  Mansfield  had  been  trained 
by  Christian  parents  to  admire  and  to  imitate 
Christian  virtues ;  he  had  had  set  before  him 
Christian  examples  ;  and  so  far  had  this  been 
of  service  to  him  that  he  did  not  depart  from 
the  way  in  which  it  was  right  he  should  go — < 
that  is,  in  his  outward  conduct.  And  assuredly 
he  had  reason  to  bless  God  as  long  as  he  lived 
for  the  pains  which  had  been  taken  with  him 
while  young,  and  for  the  prayers  to  God  for 
him  which  had  accompanied  every  precept  and 
effort.  In  after  years,  by  the  powerful  teach- 
ing of  God's  Holy  Spirit,  he  came  to  see  more 
and  more  clearly  that  no  virtue  of  our  own  can 
make  us  perfect  and  accepted  before  God  ;  but 
that  the  breach  of  a  single  law  of  the  holy  and 
just  God  requires  a  sacrifice  for  sin,  such  as 
none  but  He  could  provide,  and  such  as  he  has 
provided  in  the  death  and  righteousness  of  his 
dear  Son.  And  then,  if  Mansfield  had  ever 
before  relied  on  his  own  good  deeds,  he  gladly 
and  eagerly  cast  away  such  a  false  hope  of 
mercy  and  eternal  life,  to  lay  hold  of  the  hope 
set  before  us  in  the  gospel. 

No,  we  cannot  tell  how  it  was,  in  this  matter, 
with  Mansfield,  when  he  was  a  boy ;  nor  perhaps 
10 


110  MANSFIELD, 

could  he,  at  that  time,  have  told  how  it  was 
with  himself  There  were  motives,  no  doubt, 
of  which  he  might  not  be  entirely  aware,  which 
led  him  generally  to  do  what  was  right  and 
honourable.  But  it  is  likely  that  these  were 
not  the  best,  and  highest,  and  holiest  motives. 
There  are  persons  in  the  world,  sometimes  to 
be  met  with,  who  do  much  that  seems  right 
and  good,  but  whose  motives  are  far  from  being 
holy,  and  whose  hearts  are  really  at  enmity 
against  God.  Their  pride  rises  against  Him, 
and  they  turn  away  in  scorn  or  dislike  from 
his  love  and  mercy  as  revealed  to  us  in  the 
gospel.  They  will  not  yield  themselves  to  his 
perfect  law,  and  his  gracious  plan  of  salvation. 

This  is  a  fearful  state  to  be  in,  young  reader ; 
and  let  us  warn  all  our  friends  against  the 
fatal  error  of  believing  that  any  lovely  and 
amiable  traits  of  character  which  may  appear 
in  them  will  serve  them  instead  of  faith  in  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  as  the  only  and  all-sufficient 
Saviour.  If  we  had  never  sinned,  we  might 
indeed  be  very  bold.  Then  we  would  not  need 
mercy.  But  we  have  sinned,  and  for  sinners 
only  one  way  of  mercy  is  provided.  "He  that 
believeth  on  the  Son  of  God  hath  everlasting 
life :  and  he  that  believeth  not  the  Son  shall 
not  see  life ;  but  the  wrath  of  God  abideth  on 
him." 

While,  therefore,  to  act  justly  and  kindly, 
and  honourably  and  nobly  toward  our  fellow- 


MANSFIELD.  Ill 

creatures  should  ever  be  our  earnest  desire  and 
endeavour — and  while  neglecting  this  we  give 
sad  proof  of  a  depraved  nature  and  an  un- 
changed, unsanctified  heart — it  is  nevertheless 
a  fatal  mistake  to  rest  satisfied  there. 

Well  then,  youn§  reader,  we  would  have  you 
to  be  heroic  and  magnanimous  and  noble; 
but  we  would  have  you  to  be  so  on  good,  firm, 
Christian  principles,  and  from  right  Christian 
motives.  Every  thing  will  be  unsatisfactory 
without  these  principles  and  motives.  It  was 
so  at  this  time  with  Mansfield. 


"It  is  too  bad !  I  say  it  is  rank  favouritism," 
said  Mansfield,  impetuously ;  "  and  I  won't 
bear  it.  I  don't  care  about  losing  my  place  in 
the  class,  but  I  do  not  like  being  served  in  this 
way." 

"A  bad  mark  for  Mansfield!"  said  the 
teacher,  quietly,  to  the  monitor  who,  that  day, 
kept  the  mark  book. 

"  A  bad  mark,  sir !  Why  am  I  to  have  a  bad 
mark,  Mr.  Harpur?"  asked  Mansfield,  with 
still  increased  impetuosity. 

"  For  behaving  improperly  and  speaking 
disrespectfully:    now  go  to  your  desk." 

The  boy  obeyed ;  but  a  flame  of  resentment 
was  lighted  up  in  his  eye  which  was  not 
immediately  to  subside.  He  fancied  he  had 
been  unjustly  treated. 


112  MANSFIELD. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  the  head-master 
entered  the  school-room,  and,  very  quickly, 
Mansfield  was  standing  before  him.  His  cheek 
was  still  burning  with  indignation. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  I  wfsh  to  speak  to  you, 
if  you  are  not  busy." 

"By  all  means,  Mansfield:  what  have  you 
to  say?" 

"  Mr.  Harpur,  sir,  has  treated  me  very 
unjustly,"  said  the  boy,  almost  passionately. 

"  Indeed !    I    am   surprised  to  hear  that," 

replied  Mr.  D ,  gravely  ;   "  but,  from  your 

present  appearance  and  manner  of  address,  I 
doubt  whether  you  can  properly  judge  of  this 
matter.     But  let  me  hear  your  complaint." 

"  It  was  in  the  writing  class,  sir,"  said 
Mansfield,  commencing  his  explanation,  but 
in  a  more  subdued  and  respectful  tone ;  "  and 
my  copy  was  better  written  than  most  in  the 
class ; — at  least,  sir," — hesitating  a  little,  "I  am 
sure  it  was  as  well  written  as  any ;  but  Mr. 
Harpur  had  me  put  down  all  but  at  the  bottom, 
sir, — last  but  one." 

"Well?" 

"  And  when  I  complained  of  the  injustice, 
sir,  he  gave  me  a  bad  mark." 

"Well,  Mansfield,"  the  master  repeated 
drily,  "  any  thing  more  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  only  I  am  sure  Mr.  Harpur  did 
it  out  of  spite  to  me  ;  and — and — "  continued 
Mansfield,  warming  afresh,  "  he  snatched  the 


MANSFIELD.  113 

book  away  from  me,  as  if — as  if — like  a  dog, 

sir." 

'     "  Did  Mr.  Harpur  take  the  book  from  you 

with  his  mouth,  Mansfield?" 

"No,  sir,  I  did  not  mean  that;  but — but, 
sir,  he  did  it  very  rudely." 

"Mansfield,"   said  Mr.  D gravely,  "I 

perceive  you  are  in  a  very  ill  temper — an 
unusually  ill  temper  for  you ;  and  you  are  not, 
at  present,  capable  either  of  thinking  or  speak- 
ing correctly.  If  you  were  in  this  mood  in  the 
class,  I  do  not  wonder  that  Mr.  Harpur  placed 
a  bad  mark  against  your  name.  I  only  wonder 
that  you  had  not  two.  You  may  go  now,  I 
will  speak  to  you  again  presently." 

Mansfield  went  very  disconsolately  to  his 
desk  ;  and  presently  he  was  called  up  again. 

"Now,  Mansfield,"  said  his  tutor,  "you  are, 
I  trust,  a  little  cooler,  and  can  speak  rationally. 
Be  so  good  as  to  re-state  your  grievance." 

The  boy  did  so. 

"And  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do ?" 

"  If  you  would  be  so  kind,  sir,  as  to  look  at 
the  copies,  and  see  if  I  deserved  to  be  put  so 
low  in  the  class." 

"Most  assuredly  I  shall  not  do  that,  sir," 
replied  Mr.  D— — .  "  You  ask  me  to  insult  a 
gentleman,  after  having  yourself  insulted  him 
by  your  ebullition  of  temper." 

"  It  is  wrong,  sir,  in  Mr.  Harpur  to  say  that 
I  insulted  him." 

-    10* 


114  MANSFIELP, 

"  Mr.  Harpur  does  not  say  so.  I  have  not 
spoken  to  him  on  the  subject.  I  judge  by 
your  own  showing  that  you  did  so.  If  I  had 
not  confidence  in  Mr.  Harpur,  or  if  I  could 
think  him  capable  of  exercising  the  spite  of 
which  you  have  very  improperly  accused  him, 
he  would  not  be  your  teacher :  but  my  confi- 
dence in  that  gentleman  is  not  to  be  shaken  by 
the  petulance  of  a  boy.  As  to  your  appeal  to 
me  to  revise  Mr.  Harpur's  decision,  why,  if  I 
were  to  submit  myself  thus  to  the  direction  of 
my  pupils,  and  encourage  them  to  set  up  their 
judgment  against  that  of  properly  qualified 
teachers,  I  should  have  enough  to  do.  You 
forget  your  position,  and  that  you  should  not 
presume  to  dictate  to  them  in  this  manner. 

"You   have    forgotten    yourself    strangely, 

Mansfield,"  continued  Mr.  D ,  ".and  shown 

great  disrespect  to  Mr.  Harpur.  Had  any  one 
told  me,  an  hour  ago,  that  you  would  have 
shown  such  bad  temper,  I  should  not  have 
believed  it ;  and  when  you  have  recovered  your 
senses  you  will  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  Go 
now  to  your  work,  and  let  me  see  no  more  of 
this  spirit  in  you." 

Mansfield  withdrew ;  but  he  still  thought 
himself  ill  used,  and,  through  all  the  morn- 
ing, he  was  sullen  and  disrespectful.  Noon 
came,  and  a  group  of  friends  gathered  around 
him. 

"  Your's  was  the  best  copy  in  the  class,  or 


MANSFIELD.  115 

one  of  the  best,"  said  one,  "  and  it  was  spite 
in  Mr.  Harpur." 

"  It  was  a  shame  in  Mr.  D to  take  Mr. 

Harpur 's  part  as  he  did,"  said  another. 

"  Never  mind,  Mansfield,"  said  a  third;  "I 
am  glad  you  showed  such  spirit." 

Mansfield  said  nothing  ;  but  walked  toward 
the  farther  part  of  the  spacious  playground. 

"  Mansfield,  you  will  play  with  us,  won't 
you?"  was  shouted  from  a  party  in  the  centre 
of  the  ground,  who  wanted  one  to  make  up  the 
right  number. 

"  I  cannot  just  now,"  replied  he,  and  passed 
on. 

"  Mansfield,  do  help  me  with  this  horrid 
Caesar,"  said  another,  in  a  doleful  tone,  from 
one  of  the  benches,  as  he  passed.  "  I  have 
got  fifty  lines  to  translate  before  Saturday, 
and  I  am  stuck  fast :  a  stupid  old  freebooter, 
with  his  commentaries  !" 

"  I  am  busy  just  now,  William.  I'll  help 
you  this  evening,  if  you  want  any  help  then." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  that  will  do ;  but,  I  say, 
I'll  tell  you  how  you  may  be  even  with  old 
Harpur — and  serve  him  right,  too." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  about  that.  I  cannot  wait 
now." 

"  Mansfield,"  cried  out  a  third,  when  he  had 
advanced  a  little  farther,  "  I  have  got  to  write 
home  to  day." 

"Well,  Harry,  what  then?" 


116  MANSFIELD. 

"  Oh,  you  know  how  I  hate  letter- writing ; 
do  come  and  give  me  a  few  notions — I  know 
you  will." 

"  Another  time,  another  time ;  come  to  me 
after  school  this  afternoon,  and  we  will  talk  it 
over." 

"  Mansfield — Mansfield :"  everybody  seemed 
to  want  Mansfield  at  that  moment ;  but  at  last 
he  found  himself  alone. 

Mansfield  was  in  the  habit,  occasionally,  of 
communing  with  his  own  heart ;  and  he  did  so 
now.  Walking  to  and  fro,  apart  and  out  of 
sight,  he  struggled,  wrestled,  and  gained  a 
victory  over  himself;  the  noblest  victory  man 
or  boy  can  obtain.  Who  shall  say  how  painful 
was  the  conflict  ? 

The  afternoon  work  had  begun — the  master 
at  his  desk,  the  teachers  at  their's,  the  boys  at 
their's.  Again  and  again  Mansfield  glanced 
his  eye  toward  the  former.  Will  he  have 
courage  to  carry  out  his  intention  ? 

"  It  must  be  done,  and  it  shall  be  done." 
The  resolution  was  formed,  and  the  next  minute 
he  was  standing  by  the  master. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mansfield  ?"  asked  Mr. 
D ,  looking  rather  coldly  at  him. 

"Sir,"  said  Mansfield,  "I  behaved  very 
badly  this  morning,  and  I  wisji  to  ask  your 
pardon,  and  Mr.  Harpur's." 

Well  done,  Mansfield  !  Noble  Mansfield  !  It 
cost  him  an  effort,  though ;   and  the  tear  in  his 


MANSFIELD.  117 

• 
eye,  and  the  lip  that  trembled  in  spite  of  his 
brave  tone  and  words,  told  of  it. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Mansfield/' 
said  the  master,  looking  pleased,  and  shaking 
hands  cordially  with  him.  "  I  was  sure  you 
would  think  better  of  it,  though  I  could  scarcely 
expect  this,  even  from  you.  And  I  can  answer 
for  Mr.  Harpur.  Go  to  him,  he  wants  to  see 
you  ;  and  he  will  explain  why  he  placed  you 
so  low  in  tbe  class  this  morning.  He  would 
have  told  you  at  the  time  had  you  not  been  so 
impetuous." 

"  What  a  sneaking  fellow  !"  said  one  of  the 
boys  afterward  ; — "  what  a  sneaking  fellow, 
that  Mansfield ! — to  go  creeping  up  the  master's 
sleeve  in  that  way.  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
curry  favour  so." 

"  What  a  noodle  !"  said  another  ;  "  what  a 
noodle — that  Mansfield  !  Would  I  have  turned 
tail  in  that  sort  of  way  ?  I  thought  he  had 
more  spirit  than  to  go  confessing  and  begging 
pardon  and  such  stuff !— all  his  own  doing,  too. 
They  will  never  catch  me  making  such  an  ass 
of  myself." 

"  What  a  noble  fellow  is  that  Mansfield  !" 
said  Mr.  Harpur  to  Mr.  Weston,  on  the  same 
day.  "  There  are  few  boys  who  would  have 
submitted  to  such  self-mortification  as  he  has. 
He  is  a  noble  fellow." 

"  What  a  fuss  about  nothing !"  says  a 
modern  schoolboy.    "  Call  this  a  story  ?   Would 


118 


MANSFIELD. 


I  have  read  it  if  I  had  known  what  it  would  be 
about !  I  call  it  '  much  ado  about  nothing.' 
And  Mansfield  was  noble,  was  he,  because  he 
was  put  out  of  temper,  and  afterward  confessed 
it,  and  begged  pardon  ?  Why,  any  boy  could 
have  done  that." 

Stop,  young  friend.  Would  every  boy  have 
done  it  ?  Would  you  ?  Well,  the  next  time 
you  commit  a  fault,  or  are  guilty  of  a  folly — 

TRY. 


TEMPTATION  AND  CONQUEST. 

Mansfield  left  school,  passed  through  an 
apprenticeship,  and  at  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
or  thereabouts,  was  the  proprietor  of  a  small 
business  in  the  country  town  in  which,  at  a 
later  period  of  his  life  we  have  spoken  of  him 
as  a  prosperous  tradesman. 

At  this  time,  however,  his  circumstances 
were  far  from  prosperous.  He  had  embarked 
the  very  limited  capital  he  possessed  in  a  busi- 
ness which  sadly  disappointed  his  hopes, 
though,  happily,  it  did  not  damp  his  energy.  It 
is  a  wearing,  harassing  occupation  for  an  active 
young  man  to  stand,  day  after  day,  behind  the 
counter,  waiting  for  customers  who  will  not 
come,  and  tossing  about  merchandise  which  he 
cannot  dispose  of;  feeling  himself,  all  the 
while,  entangled  in  responsibilities  which  daily 
accumulate,  and  out  of  which  he  can  see  no 
mode  of  extrication.  This  was  Mansfield's 
position. 

"Hope  on,  hope  ever;"  "Hope  humbly, 
hope  always;"  "Never  despair:"  these  are 
good  mottoes  in  their  way ;  and  Mansfield  tried 

119 


120  TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST. 

to  make  the  best  of  them.  He  would  not 
despair  ;  he  would  hope  ;  but  he  could  not  keep 
his  heart  from  aching,  when,  night  after  night, 
after  his  shop  shutters  were  put  up,  he  sat  tired 
with  doing  nothing  in  his  scantily  furnished 
parlour,  or  retired  to  his  bed-room,  sadly  pon- 
dering over  his  gloomy  and  uncertain  prospects. 
Mansfield's  situation  was  all  the  more  irk- 
some from  the  fact  of  his  being  almost  a 
stranger  in  the  place.  He  had  lived  but  a 
little  while  in  the  town,  and  had  made  but  few 
acquaintances, — to  say  nothing  of  friendships, 
which  the  reader  may  perhaps  know  are  very 
different  things.  He  had,  therefore,  no  one  to 
advise  him,  or  to  encourage  him,  excepting 
Rachel — dear  Rachel. 

'Rachel  was  Mansfield's  sister,  the  same  who 
had  helped  him  in  his  boyhood  to  learn  the 
multiplication  table,  and  who  now — his  house- 
keeper and  only  companion — helped  him  to 
persevere  and  struggle  on.  Sometimes,  when 
poor  Mansfield's  spirits  were  most  drooping, 
Rachel  would  persuade  him  to  leave  his  shop 
in  the  care  of  his  only  assistant,  and  walk  with 
her  quite  away  into  the  fields,  or  by  the  river 
side.  And  then,  forgetting  his  troubles  for  a 
little  while,  Mansfield  would  be  induced  to  talk 
of  the  days  of  his  childhood,  or  of  old  school 
times,  and  of  other  things  besides,  and  returned 
refreshed  and  strengthened. 

It  was  in  itself  no  pleasant  change  for  Rachel 


TEMPTATION  AND  CONQUEST.     121 

Mansfield  to  take  up  her  abode  in  a  close  and 
somewhat  dark  dwelling,  in  a  narrow,  crowded 
street,  in  a  town  where  she  and  her  brother 
were  so  little  known,  instead  of  living  in  the 
country,  and  being  surrounded  by  old  and 
loving  friends.  But  had  it  been  still  more 
irksome  to  her,  she  wTould  willingly  have  borne 
it  for  her  brother's  sake,  and  to  be  useful  to 
him.  Ah  !  these  kind  and  self-denying  sisters 
are  great  blessings  in  the  world. 

Mansfield  was  grateful  to  his  sister  ;  and  his 
gratitude  was  shown  in  many  little  matters 
which  some  young  men  would  never  have 
thought  of.  Sometimes,  too,  when  hop#e  was  at 
its  highest,  after  a  particularly  encouraging 
day  of  business,  perhaps,  he  would  lay  many  a, 
plan  for  rewarding,  in  future  days,  the  care 
and  goodness  of  his  sister  Rachel. 

There  was  something  else,  however,  which, 
in  addition  to  these  alleviations,  and  more  than 
any  thing  besides,  enabled  Mansfield  to  keep 
up  a  good  degree  of  courage  amid  all  his  dis- 
couragements :  he  loved  the  Bible,  and  he 
loved  prayer.  He  had  the  true  recipe  for 
cheerfulness — he  was  a  christian.  Some 
years  before  he  knew  much  about  the  cares  of 
business,  Mansfield  had  been  dissatisfied  with 
himself,  with  his  pleasures,  and  with  all  the 
world.  And  yet,  some  might  have  said,  he 
had  much  with  which  he  might  have  been 
satisfied.  The  approbation  of  the  wise;  the 
11 


122  TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST. 

love  of  the  good ;  cheerful  companions ;  in- 
dustrious and  persevering  habits ;  health  and 
moderation;  a  business  training  -which  suited 
his  inclination — all  these,  with  many  other 
helps  to  happiness,  were  his.  But  still  he  was 
dissatisfied.  One  thing  more  was  wanting; 
and  that  one  thing  was  "  the  love  of  God  shed 
abroad  in  his  heart." 

For  a  time,  he  neglected  the  invitations  of 
God's  word,  and  the  gentle  but  powerful 
strivings  of  tfre  Holy  Spirit,  and  his  uneasiness 
increased.  But,  at  length,  by  the  grace  and 
mercy  of  God,  he  was  enabled  to  yield,  and  he 
gave  his. heart,  his  affections,  to  Christ ;  took 
Christ's  "yoke"  upon  him,  and  learned  of  Him. 
Then  his  disquietude  vanished.  From  that  time, 
Mansfield  had  known  much,  and  enjoyed  much, 
of  the  spirit  of  that  most  faithful  declaration, 
"  Thou  wilt  keep  him  in  perfect  peace,  whose 
mind  is  stayed  on  thee,  because  he  trusteth  in 
thee."    Isa.  xxvi.  3. 

Not  that  Mansfield  expected,  because  he  was 
a  Christian,  to  pass  through  life  without  trouble 
of  some  kind  or  other ;  he  knew  better  than 
this :  but  he  did  expect,  he  trusted,  he  believed, 
that  even  trials  would  be  sanctified  and  made 
blessings  ;  and  he  rested  upon  the  promise  of 
God,  who  says  of  every  child  of  his,  "  Because 
he  hath  set  his  love  upon  me,  therefore  will  I 
deliver  him  :  I  will  set  him  on  high,  because 
he  hath  known  my  name.     He  shall  call  upon 


TEMPTATION  AND    CONQUEST.  123 

me,  and  I  will  answer  him :  I  will  be  with  him 
in  trouble ;  I  will  deliver  him,  and  honour  him." 
Ps.  xci.  14,  15.  It  was  this  trust  in  God 
which  gave  courage  to  Mansfield,  as  it  has 
done  to  thousands  besides,  to  face  his  difficulties 
cheerfully  and  without  murmuring.  And  to 
you,  readers — schoolboys  as  you  are  now,  but 
men  as  you  will  be  soon,  should  your  lives  be 
spared,  and  men  struggling,  perhaps,  with  life's 
difficulties — to  you  do  we  say,  "  Oh  taste  and 
see  that  the  Lord  is  good  :  blessed  is  the  man 
that  trusteth  in  him."  Ps.  xxxiv.  8. 

At  a  time  when  Mansfield's  difficulties  in 
business  seemed  to  gather  fast,  and  when  his 
hopes  were  at  the  lowest,  an  event  occurred 
which  promised  to  change  the  current  of  affairs. 
An  old  lady,  his  relation,  to  whom  Mansfield 
was  what  is  called  heir-at-law,  died  suddenly, 
and  no  will  could  be  found.  Now  Mrs. 
Simmons — cousin  Jane,  as  she  was  familiarly 
called — was  a  strange-tempered  old  lady ;  and, 
having  taken  offence  at  something  said  or  done 
by  her  relations,  she  had  rejected  all  further 
communication  with  them,  and  declared  that 
none  of  the  Mansfields  should  ever  inherit  any 
part  of  her  property.  At  the  same  time  it  was 
known  that  she  did  cause  a  will  to  be  made 
which  was  duly  signed,  and  by  which  her  whole 
property  was  left  to  a  stranger  who  had 
recently  made  her  acquaintance ;  and  had,  as 
was  believed,  persuaded  her  to  this  unkind  and 


124  TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST. 

wrong  course,  and  kept  up  in  her  mind  those 
bitter  feelings. 

Nevertheless,  when  cousin  Jane  died,  greatly 
to  the  surprise  of  all  concerned,  no  will  could 
be  found  ;  and,  after  many  a  strict  and  per- 
severing but  vain  search,  from  cellar  to  garret, 
of  the  large  old  farm  house  in  which  she  had 
lived,  it  was  concluded  that,  in  a  moment  of 
repentance,  the  old  maiden  lady  had  destroyed 
the  unjust  will,  with  the  intention,  perhaps,  of 
making  another,  which  intention  she  had  not 
found  time  nor  opportunity  to  fulfil. 

Very  much  enraged  was  Mr.  Thomson,  the 
expectant  legatee,  at  this  disappointment  of  his 
hopes  :  but  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  and,  as 
Mansfield  was  really  the  best  entitled  to  the 
inheritance,  he  very  properly  and  righteously 
entered  into  its  possession. 

It  was,  doubtless,  a  great  relief  to  Mansfield's 
mind,  whatever  degree  of  regret  he  felt  at  the 
death  of  his  relation,  to  find  himself  thus  un- 
expectedly released  from  the  cares  and  anxieties 
of  an  unsuccessful  business.  But  he  did  not 
act  ungenerously  toward  the  disappointed 
expectant ;  or  rather,  he  behaved  very  gene- 
rously ,  for  it  was  to  be  considered  that  Mr. 
Thomson  had  no  natural  claim  to  the  property 
of  "  cousin  Jane." 

Not  to  puzzle  the  reader  with  a  long  ex- 
planation of  the  distinction  which  is  made  in 
law  between  what  is  called  real  property  and 


TEMPTATION  AND  CONQUEST.     125 

personal  property,  we  need  only  say  that,  by  the 
law  in  force  there,  all  of  the  former  description, 
of  which  there  was  much,  belonged  to  Mansfield, 
as  heir-at-law;  and  that  all  of  the  latter,  of 
which  there  was  little,  had  to  be  shared  between 
himself  and  his  sister  Rachel.  This  was 
accordingly  done ;  and  after  some  needful 
delay,  and  when  all  legal  forms  had  been  ob- 
served, the*  brother  and  sister  took  possession 
of  what  they  and  everybody  else  believed  to  be 
righteously  and  lawfully  their  own. 


A  eew  months  afterwards,  Mansfield's  cir- 
cumstances were  greatly  improved.  He  had 
removed  from  his  former  house  into  larger  and 
more  desirable  business-premises  in  another 
part  of  the  town ;  and  his  business  was  greatly 
increased,  so  that  he  had  no  longer  any  temp- 
tation to  fret  at  the  absence  of  customers. 
Rachel  remained  with  him  "as  housekeeper ; 
but  a  new  prospect  had  opened  to  them  both, 
against  which  they  had  previously,  with  strong 
resolution,  shut  their  eyes — they  each  looked 
forward  to  marriage. 

Mansfield's  accession  to  property,  and  the 
change  in  his  position,  had  introduced  him  to 
new  connections  :  he  could  no  longer  regret 
being  unknown  and  uncompanioned.  Wealth 
draws  many  friends. 

As  to  his  recently  acquired  inheritance,  as 
Mansfield  had  wisely  determined  not  to  relin- 
11* 


126  TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST. 

quish  a  business  to  which  he  had  been  brought 
up,  he  had  arranged  to  let  the  farm,  and -was 
on  the  point  of  doing  so,  having  previously  sold 
by  auction  much  of  the  stock  and  furniture 
which  had  descended  jointly  to  himself  and 
his  sister.  Thus  far,  then,  all  was  smiling; 
the  sunshine  of  prosperity  was  full  upon  him. 

One  evening,  a  countryman  entered  Mans- 
field's shop,  and,  saying  that  he  wanted  a  word 
in  private,  was  ushered  into  the  counting-house. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Mansfield,  "what 
may  be  your  business  ?" 

The  man  took  from  his  pocket  a  small  parcel, 
and  laid  it  down.  "You  don't  know  me,  I  dare 
say,"  said  he;  "but  that  is  no  matter.  I 
bought  some  things  at  old  Madam  Simmon's 
sale." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  remember  you  now.  I  hope 
jou  were  satisfied  with  your  bargain." 

"  Oh  yes ;  as  to  that,  I  need  not  complain. 
I  bought  a  bed  and  bedstead,  and  a  lot  of 
crockery,  and  some  chairs,  and  so  on  ;  and  an 
old — I  don't  know  justly  what  to  call  it ;  it 
was  a  set  of  drawers,  like — very  old-fashioned." 

"  Yes,  I  recollect :  it  was  a  cabinet." 

"Ay,  that's  what  it  was  called  on  the  bill. 
Well,  sir,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  when 
we  were  getting  the  things  home,  this  cabinet 
got  a  smash,  and  was  knocked  pretty  near  all 
to  bits ;  and  in  putting  it  together  again,  this 
dropped   out.     Where   it  came  from  I  can't 


Sctjool  JBays  HebietoeTi. 


Mansfield  opened  it— it  was  the  will.  p.  127. 


TEMPTATION  AND  CONQUEST.     127 

say ;  for  I  could  have  been  positive  there  was 
nothing  in  the  drawers  when  I  bought  the  bit 
of  goods.  However^  here  it  is ;  and  as  it  was 
no  part  of  my  bargain,  and  did  not  concern 
me,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  bring  it  up  here." 
So  saying,  the  man  pushed  the  packet  toward 
Mansfield. 

Mansfield  opened  it — glanced  at  it :  it  was 
the  will. 

With  what  feelings  the  young  tradesman 
discovered  the  nature  of  this  communication  it 
is  not  necessary  to  surmise :  our  business  is 
not  with  what  he  felt,  but  with  what  he  did. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  paper  is?"  he 
asked  of  the  man,  as  calmly  as  he  was  able. 

"  No,  sir  :  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  much 
of  a  scholar,  and  can't  read  writing  at  all ;  and 
then  I  thought  it  was  no  business  of  mine,  so  I 
did  not  look  into  it." 

"And  have  you  shown  it  to  any  one  else  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  sir.     Nobody  has  seen  it." 

"You  probably,  however,  guess  what  it 
contains  ?" 

"I  may  have  my  own  thoughts  about  it," 
said  the  man ;  "  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  If  the  paper,  whatever  it  is,  is  of  any 
use  to  you,  you  are  welcome  to  it :  if  you  like 
to  pay  me  for  my  trouble  of  bringing  it,  well 
and  good  ;  and  if  it  is  of  no  use,  why,  you  can 
put  it  in  the  fire  at  once,  and  there  will  be  an 
end  of  it." 


128  TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST. 

"  I  will  get  you  to  wait  a  little  while,  my 
friend,"  said  Mansfield,  still  calmly  :  "  this  is  a 
matter  which  cannot  be  disposed  of  by  us  two." 
Thus  saying,  he  wrote  two  hasty  notes,  dis- 
patched them,  and  then  invited  the  countryman 
into  his  parlour.  In  a  few  minutes  a  neighbour, 
writh  Mansfield's  sister  and  his  solicitor,  were 
added  to  the  conference. 

In  a  few  days,  it  was  rumoured,  and  the 
rumour  soon  became  a  certainty,  that  Mansfield 
had  lost  the  inheritance  to  which  he  had  suc- 
ceeded, and  that  he  was  a  ruined  man.    And — 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  piece  of 
Quixotism?"  asked  one  townsman  of  another, 
during  the  prevalence  of  the  "  nine  days'  won- 
der." "Why,  as  I  have  been  told,  Mansfield 
no  sooner  set  his  eyes  on  the  will — which,  by 
the  way,  he  might  have  destroyed  if  he  had 
pleased,  and  nobody  wrould  have  been  the 
wiser — than  he  called  in  his  lawyer,  and  .  they 
together  sent  off,  post  haste,  to  old  Thomson, 
to  let  him  know  all  about  it.  At  any  rate,  I 
would  have  taken  care  of  myself,  and  made  a 
good  bargain  of  it,  before  giving  up  the  will. 
And,  as  to  that,  there  would  not  have  been 
much  harm,  in  my  way  of  thinking,  if  the  will 
had  gone  into  the  fire.  Who  has  the  best  right 
to  the  property,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  But 
Mansfield  is  one  of  the  queer  ones,  they  say; 
and  so  is  his  sister :  and  if  people  will  be  fools, 
they  must." 


TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST.  129 

Many  such  speeches  were  uttered,  and  some 
blamed,  some  laughed,  some  sighed,  and  some 
praised.  Meanwhile,  quietly  and  peacefully, 
though  it  may  be  with  some  natural  depression 
of  spirits,  Mansfield  and  his  sister  went  on  their 
course.  They  gave  up,  at  once,  their  late 
possessions  according  to  the  tenor  of  "  cousin 
Jane's"  will ;  and  were  ungenerously  harassed 
by  the  new  owner  on  account  of  that  part  of  it 
which  had  been  sold,  or  otherwise  expended. 
As  far  as  they  were  able,  they  met  his  demands : 
but  not  satisfied  with  this,  he  threatened  them 
with  law.  Then  came  the  breaking  up  of 
Mansfield's  business,  and  the  utter,  frustration 
of  his  hopes  of  conjugal  happiness.  He  had  to 
begin  the  world  afresh,  "  and  that  with  nothing 
— no,  not  a  penny  of  his  own :"  so  said  his 
neighbour ;  but  this  was  a  mistake. 

Not  with  nothing  !  He  had  great  riches — 
peace  of  mind,  a  conscience  void  of  offence, 
and  God's  love  and  approbation.  Are  these 
nothing,  young  reader  ? 

And  he  prospered.  Worldly  prosperity 
often  brings  a  load  of  trouble  with  it :  but  it 
brought  none  to  Mansfield,  for  it  was  ac- 
companied by  that  "blessing  which  maketh 
rich,"  and  to  which  God  "  addeth  no  sorrow." 
Prov.  x.  22. 


Young   friend,    if   you    would    have    God's 
blessing,  you,  too,  must  be  prepared  to  hold  fast 


130  TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST. 

integrity  and  a  good  conscience  at  all  cost. 
Probably,  indeed,  you  will  never  be  exposed  to 
a  trial  so  severe  as  that  of  which  you  have  just 
read ;  but  you  will  not  pass  through  life, — 
depend  upon  it, — without  having  your  honest 
and  honourable  principles  put  to  the  test.  How 
do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  stand  it  ? 

Ah,  perhaps  you  say,  it  will  be  time  enough 
to  find  out  that  when  the  time  comes. 

Well,  time  enough  to  find  it  out  may  be,  but 
not  time  enough  to  prepare  for  the  trial.  No, 
no  :  you  must  prepare  for  that  novj.  If  you 
are  not  heroic  and  courageous  enough  now  to 
do  what  is.  right  because  it  is  right,  what  can 
be  expected  of  you  when  the  stern  and  hard 
trials  and  temptations  of  life  come  on  ?  Why, 
this  is  to  be  expected — you  will  fall  before  them. 

Christian  principle ! — that  is  the  best  and 
only  true  safeguard  against  every  kind  of 
temptation ;  the  only  armour  that  is  proof. 
"  Take  unto  you,"  then,  young  readers,  "the 
whole  armour  of  God,  that  ye  may  be  able  to 
withstand  in  the  evil  day,  and  having  done  all, 
to  stand." 

Do  you  ask  what  this  armour  is  ?  Why, 
there  is  the  breastplate  of  righteousness,  and 
the  shield  of  faith,  the  girdle  of  truth,  and  the 
helmet  of  salvation,  the  sword  of  the  Spirit, 
which  is  the  word  of  God,  and  prayer,  and 
watchfulness,  and  peace.  Eph..  vi.  11 — 18. 
This  is  the  armour  in  which,  by  the  help  of 


TEMPTATION   AND    CONQUEST.  131 

God's  Holy  Spirit,  you  will  be  u  able  to  stand 
against  the  wiles  of  the  devil,"  and  the  strong 
temptations  which  may  assail  you. 

We  do  not  know  what  our  old  school-fellow 
Mansfield  would  have  done  without  this  armour ; 
but  we  do  know  that  life  abounds  with  circum- 
stances calculated  to  manifest  what  are  the  real 
principles  of  most  persons ;  and  wherever  there 
is  a  desire  of  glorifying  God,  the  transactions 
of  every  day  will  yield  opportunity  for  doing 
so  ;  as  they  will  also  afford  means  for  serving 
self  and  the  world. 

Christian  principle  ! — but  how  to  get  Chris- 
tian principle  ?  Is  that  your  question,  young 
friend?  Listen,  then,  to  Him  who  says,  and 
says  to  you,  "  Learn  of  me  ;  for  I  am  meek 
and  lowly  in  heart."     Learn  of  me. 

Yes,  learn  of  Jesus,  and  then  one  simple  and 
all-sufficient  reason  will  urge  you  on,  and 
strengthen  you  for  a  continuance  in  well-doing, 
and  brace  you  in  every  unexpected  emergency : 
I  cannot  do  this  wrong ;  I  must  not  do  this 
wrong;  by  God's  help,  I  will  not  do  this 
wrong  ;  for  I  "  serve  the  Lord  Christ." 


VI. 
THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION. 

An  i]lumination  and  a  holiday — an  illumina- 
tion in  the  town,  and  a  holiday  at  school ! 
Cause  and  effect ;  the  effect,  however,  pre- 
ceding the  cause :  there  was  a  holiday  at 
school  in  the  day,  because  there  was  to  be  a 
grand  illumination  in  the  town  at  night.  Why 
there  was  to  be  an  illumination  is  but  of  little 
consequence ;  it  might  have  been  an  occasion 
of  a  political  triumph,  or  some  other  public 
event. 

"A  long  walk  after  breakfast ;  then,  after  din- 
ner, marbles  in  the  playground,  for  marbles  were 
in.  We  might  wish  that  some  other  game  more 
athletic  and  attended  with  fewer  evil  associa- 
tions and  effects  had  been  chosen.  But  per- 
haps our  young  friends  had  some  way  of  avoid- 
ing what  is  objectionable  and  securing  only  a 
healthful  excitement. 

Of  all  the  marble  play*ers  of  that  day,  Ro- 
binson was  the  best  shot.  He  could  single 
out  a  marble  from  the  ring,  or  strike,  with  un- 
erring aim,  the  taw  of  an  opponent  at  a  dis- 
tance of  three  paces ;  and  at  six  he  rarely 
132 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     133 

missed  On  that  particular  afternoon,  his  skill 
shone  more  conspicuously  than  ever,  and-  he 
was  proportionably  elated. 

Superior  ability,  however,  whether  in  the 
games  of  schoolboys  or  the  more  important 
pursuits  of  manhood,  has  its  disadvantages; 
and  Robinson's  opponents  dropped  off,  one  by 
one,  tired  of  being  perpetually  beaten.  "  It 
is  of  no  use  to  play  with  him,"  said  they ; 
u  there  is  no  chance  of  winning  a  single  game." 
At  length,  he  was  left  alone  in  his  glory. 

Robinson  was  modest.  He  disclaimed  all 
personal  excellence,  and  depreciated  his  own 
skilful  performances.  It  was  not  that  he  could 
shoot  with  a  marble  better  than  any  other  boy; 
this  was  not  the  cause  of  his  winning  every 
game,  be  said :  but  he  had  the  happiness  of 
possessing  a  most  valuable  "  blood  alley  ;"  and 
all  the  merit  was  in  his  alley,  and  not  in  him- 
self. It  was  a  perfect  sphere,  this  same  alley, 
he  said,  and  therefore  it  went  so  straight  to 
the  mark ;  it  was  also  the  exact  size  which 
suited  his  knuckle.  According  to  his  account 
of  it,  this  alley  seemed  almost  to  be  endowed 
with  consciousness,  and  to  act  in  concert  with 
the  mind  and  will  of  its  owner.  Besides  all 
this,  "it  was  a  perfect  beauty,  quite  a  love  of  a 
marble,  so  regularly  veined,  and  so  delicately 
tinted.  It  was  a  real  blood,  too."  This  was 
his  style  of  talking  about  his  alley. 

"  How  much  will  you  take  for  your  alley  ?" 
12 


134     THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION. 

was  asked  once  and  again  by  one  and  another, 
who  half  believed  in  its  vaunted  and  peculiar 
virtues. 

How  much!  Scores  of  common  every-day 
alleys  would  not,  that  afternoon,  have  pur- 
chased Robinson's  "  little  fairy,"  as  he  called  it. 

Thus  much  for  the  holiday ;  now  for  the 
illumination. 

It  was  a  fine  evening,  and  hundreds  were 
thronging  the  streets,  to  see  what  was  to  be 
seen.  Before  the  sun  had  set,  each  house- 
holder was  busy  in  preparing  the  lamps  or 
candles  with  which  his  dwelling,  outside  or  in, 
was  to  be  enlightened  and  enlivened.  Pre- 
sently, as  the  dusk  of  evening  increased,  lights 
were  rapidly  applied  to  turpentined  wicks, 
until  soon  every  street  sparkled,  from  end  to 
end,  with  brilliancy.  On  one  house  shone  a 
magnificent  pure  white  star;  on  another,  a 
crown  of  many-coloured  lamps.  Here  were 
gigantic  initial  letters  of  flame,  shining  through 
purple  and  gold ;  and  there  a  wonderful  trans- 
parency, emblematic  of  the  event  which  had 
given  rise  to  the  general  rejoicing.  Some 
householders  had  contented  themselves  with 
decorating  their  window  sills,  externally,  with 
tallow  candles  in  candlesticks  of  clay,  which 
flared  and  flamed  and  wasted  (the  candles,  not 
the  candlesticks)  in  the  evening  breeze.  Others, 
more  prudent  and  economical,  illuminated  their 
windows  withinside. 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     135 

It  was  a  profitable  evening,  that,  for  oil 
merchants  and  tallow  chandlers :  even  the  poor 
wood  sawyer,  who  could  scarcely  earn  enough 
money  to  buy  daily  bread ;  the  mechanic  out 
of  work ;  the  widowed  wash-woman,  with  a 
large  young  family  to  support — these,  and 
dozens  besides,  while  sorely  grudging  the 
waste,  added,  by  their  rows  of  lighted  candles, 
to  the  splendour  of  that  general  illumination. 

The  excited  schoolboys,  however,  (who  ac- 
companied by  one  of  their  teachers,  lest  they 
should  get  into  mischief,  increased  the  throng 
of  street-gazers  that  night,)  had  little  thought 
for  such  matters,  and  found  enough  to  admire 
in  every  bright  and  shining  device  that  met 
their  eyes. 

Presently,  turning  the  corner  of  a  street, 
our  schoolboys  found  themselves  in  a  thicker 
crowd,  facing  a  large  house  which  was  not 
lighted  up.  Very  gloomy  and  frowning  seemed 
that  mansion  amidst  its  gay  and  brilliant  neigh- 
bours ;  and  very  wroth  was  the  crowd  with  the 
owner  of  that  house  for  the  strange  perverse- 
ness  he  showed, 

"  He  deserves  to  have  his  windows  broken," 
said  one. 

"  So  he  will,"  replied  another,  "  before  the 
night  is  out." 

"A  stingy  fellow  I"  exclaimed  a  third. 

"  He  is  not  stingy ;  he  belongs  to  the  op- 
position," said  a  fourth. 


136      THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION. 

"More  shame  to  him!"  shouted  a  fifth: 
"he  ought  to  have  his  windows  broken." 

And  probably,  ere  this,  the  gentleman's 
windows  would  have  been  broken,  had  not  the 
people  in  the  crowd  known  that  police  officers 
were  placed  in  front  of  the  house,  ready  to 
pounce  upon  the  first  who  should  throw  a 
stone. 

"  Pass  on,  boys,  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  said 
Mr.  Weston,  the  teacher,  "  and  let  us  get  out 
of  the  crowd :"  and  accordingly  the  boys  passed 
on. 

"Why  is  not  that  house  illuminated,  sir?" 
asked  one  of  the  boys  of  his  teacher. 

"I  believe,  for  one  thing,"  replied  Mr. 
Weston,  "  the  gentleman  who  lives  in  it  thinks 
that  a  general  illumination  is  a  very  foolish 
waste  of  money,  and  therefore  he  sets  his  face 
against  this  evening's  public  rejoicings :  and  I 
think  his  opinion  is  correct.  Then,  for  another 
thing,  you  heard  one  of  the  men  say  that  Mr. 
Martin — for  that  is  the  gentleman's  name — 
belongs  to  the  opposition :  that  is,  he  thinks 
differently  from  those  who  have  ordered  the 
general  illumination,  and  does  not  consider  that 
there  is  any  cause  for  rejoicing  of  any  kind; 
and  therefore,  also,  he  chooses  not  to  light  up 
his  house." 

This  explanation  did  not  entirely  satisfy 
some  of  our  schoolboys.  "A  pretty  fellow, 
this  Mr.  Martin,"   thought  they,   "to   set  up 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     137 

his  judgment  against  all  the  world.  So  he 
would  not  have  had  an  illumination,  eh  ?  And 
then  we  should  have  lost  this  grand  sight,  and 
our  holiday  into  the  bargain." 

"  He  does  deserve  to  have  his  windows  bro* 
ken,  J  think,"  said  one. 

"  I  should  just  like  to  have  a  chance  at 
them,"  whispered  another. 

"We  must  go  back  that  way  again,"  said  a 
third,  significantly :  and  so,  for  that  time,  the 
subject  was  dropped. 

A  larger  crowd  than  before  was  assembled  in 
front  of  Mr.  Martin's  house,  when  the  boys, 
returning  from  sight-seeing,  were  going  home- 
wards ;  and  it  was  by  no  means  a  quiet  crowd. 
Some  were  shouting,  some  hissing,  some  were 
abusing  the  officers  who  kept  watch  and  ward. 

"Keep  on  the  pavement,  and  go  on  as  fast 
as  you  can,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

But  they  could  not  go  fast,  had  they  wished, 
and  the  boys  did  not  particularly  wish  to  go 
fast.  It  was  good  fun :  and  when  they  were 
just  opposite  the  dark  house,  they  stood  still 
for  more  than  a  minute,  waiting  for  a  clearer 
passage. 

There  was  one  boy  in  that  group  who,  had 
he  been  noticed,  would  have  been  seen  to  slip 
his  hand  into  his  pocket,  draw  it  out  again — 
put  it  in  again — draw  it  out  again,  and  then 
look  stealthily  round  with  a  very  red  face.  At 
length,  had  he  been  very  closely  watched,  a 
12* 


138  THE    GENERAL    ILLUMINATION., 

small  marble  would  have  been  seen  between  his 
finger  and  thumb,  held  very  tight,  and  ner- 
vously worked  to  and  fro. 

"  Now  then,  my  boys,"  said  Mr.  Weston, 
"  there  is  room  for  you  to  pass  :   be  quick." 

The  next  minute  a  sharp  sound  of  broken 
glass  was  heard ;  and  the  marble  had  dis- 
appeared. . 

"  Hallo  !  there  goes  one  window  to  begin 
with,"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  the  crowd. 

"Who  did  that  ?"  shouted  one  of  the  officers, 
rushing  forward  :  "  it  was  one  of  those  boys,  I 
know  ;"  and  he  was  about  to  lay  hands  on  one 
of  them  at  a  venture. 

" Nonsense,  my  good  man,"  said  Mr.  Wes- 
ton, "  I  have  been  close  by  them  all  the  time, 
and  not  one  of  them  lifted  a  hand,  I  am  cer- 
tain." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Weston,"  replied  the  man,  who 
knew  the  teacher,  "  I  believe  you ;  else  I  did 
fancy  the  stone  came  from  hereabouts.  This 
is  a  queer  sort  of  job,  sir  ;  I  wish  it  was  over :" 
and  he  returned  to  his  station,  just  in  time  to 
hear  the  crash  of  another  pane  of  glass,  and  to 
lay  hands  on  the  man  by  whom  the  stone  was 
thrown.  Then  there  was  a  rush,  a  rescue,  and 
a  fierce  fight  between  police  and  mob,  ending 
in  more  broken  windows,  some  broken  heads, 
and  the  committal,  next  morning,  of  three  or 
four  rioters  to  prison.  Meanwhile  the  boys 
reached  home,  pleased  with  the  fun,  and  only 


Sc&ool  Bijjs  Hebietoett. 


The  visitor  was  plainly,  but  neatly  dressed.      p.  139. 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     139 

regretting  that  general  illuminations  were  so 
rare. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  the  boys 
being  seated,  and  busily  at  work  at  their  desks 
— the  master,  accompanied  by  a  visitor,  entered 
the  school-room,  and  looked  gravely  around 
him. 

The  visitor  was  a  stout,  pleasant-looking 
man,  very  plainly  but  neatly  dressed. 

"Who  is  he?  Who  is  he?"  was  whispered 
by  one  to  another. 

There  were  few  who  knew  him  :  but  pre- 
sently, at  the  farther  desk  was  heard  a  low- 
toned  voice,  "  That  is  Mr.  Martin ;"  and  at 
the  sound  of  this  name,  one  of  the  boys,  our 
sharp-shooter,  Robinson,  looked  rather  con- 
fused, fidgetted  in  his  seat,  and  then  hastily 
began  to  work  away  most  industriously  at  the 
slate  before  him. 

"What  can  he  be  come  for?"  whispered  a 
boy  at  Robinson's  elbow- — "  eh,  Robinson  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?"  replied  he.  "  What 
is  it  to  you  ?  Why  don't  you  go  on  with  your 
work  ?  You  will  get  me  a  bad  mark  presently 
for  talking,  if  you  don't  mind."  And  again 
he  went  on  with  his  sum. 

"  Boys,"  said  Mr.  D ,  after  a  few  mi- 
nutes' ominous  silence,  "  I  wish  you  to  form  a 
general  class." 

It  was  done. 

"Boys,"-  said   he   again,  "my  friend  Mr. 


140  THE    GENERAL   ILLUMINATION. 

Martin  had  some  of  his  windows  broken  last 
night ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  is  grave 
suspicion  resting  on  one  or  more  of  you  as 
having  joined  in  this  wanton  mischief.  What 
am  I  to  say  to  this  ?  What  have  you  to  say. 
to  it?" 

No  answer,  but  many  broad  stares  at  Mr. 
Martin,  who  stood  by  the  master's  side,  with 
a  good-humoured  expression  of  countenance, 
wThich  spoke  volumes  of  encouragement. 

"  Mr.  Weston  tells  me,"  continued  the 
master,  "  that  you  were  in  front  of  this  gentle- 
man's house  when  a  window  was  broken,  and 
that  one  of  the  police  charged  one  of  you  with 
the  deed." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  (one  of  the  accused  ventured  to 
reply ;)  "  but  Mr.  Weston  knew  that  we  did 
not  do  it." 

"  Nay,  he  only  thought  you  were  guiltless, 
as  he  had  not  seen  either  of  you  throw  a  stone: 
but  he  might  be  mistaken,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  might;  but — " 

"Well,  will  any  one  of  you  acknowledge 
having  thrown  a  stone,  so  as  to  break  one  of 
the  windows  in  Mr.  Martin's  house  ?" 

No  answer. 

"I  must  ask  all  around  then.  Did  you? 
Did  you  ? — you? — you  ? — you  ?" 

"  No,  sir" — "  Oh  no,  sir" — "  Certainly  not, 
sir" — "I  did  not,  indeed,  sir."  Thus  said 
they  all. 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     141 

"  Will  you  ask  our  young  friends  if  either  of 
them  threw  a  marble  t"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  Certainly,  I  will.  You  hear  boys,  what 
my  friend  suggests — was  a  marble  thrown  by 
either  of  you,  so  as  to  break  one  of  the  win- 
dows ?" 

At  mention  of  the  word  marble  one  of  the 
"young  friends"  hung  his  head  and  seemed 
embarrassed;  but  he  soon  recovered  himself. 
As  before,  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Come,  I  entreat  you  to  speak,  if  any  one 
of  you  is  conscious  of  having  done  it,"  said  the 
master  kindly:  "it  is  as  bad  to  conceal  some 
faults  as  to  commit  them.  'Dare  t©  be  true.' 
Mansfield  did  you  throw  a  marble  through  this 
gentleman's  window  ?  Alfred  did  you  ? — Wil- 
liam ?— Henry  ?— Albert  ?— Fran%?" 

"  No,  sir ;  indeed,  sir,  we  know  nothing 
about  it." 

"  Bowler  ?— Nelson  ?— Hart  ?— Powel  ?— 
Robinson  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  they  all  once  more. 

"  They  all  deny  it,  sir,"  said  the  master, 
turning  to  the  visitor. 

"  I  am-  sorry  for  it,"  repled  Mr.  Martin, 
looking  grave  and  sad ;  "  for  by  the  testimony 
of  a  credible  witness  whom  I  have  this  morning 
seen,  and  whom  I  will  produce,  if  necessary, 
one  of  these  boys  is  guilty.  In  the  mean  time," 
he  continued,  slowly  putting  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  "  this  may  assist  us  in  discovering  the 


142  THE    GENERAL   ILLUMINATION. 

culprit,  as  it  is  so  peculiarly  marked.  It  was 
found  this  morning  on  my  parlour  carpet,  and 
one  of  the  panes  of  glass  has  a  hole  which 
answers  exactly  to  its  size."  Thus  saying, 
Mr.  Martin  exhibited,  in  the  broad  palm  of  his 
hand,  a  marble. 

Very  startling  was  the  effect  produced  by 
this  exhibition. 

"It  is  Robinson's  alley — his  shooter, — his 
blood  alley,"  whispered  the  boys  from  top  to 
bottom  of  the  class.  As  to  Robinson,  he  in- 
stinctively put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and 
drew  out,  tremblingly,  a  handful  of  marbles. 
His  alley,  was  not  there.  He  coloured  ;  then 
his  colour  went  out ;  then  tears  gushed  from 
his  eyes. 

"Is  it  yours ?  Or  was  it  yours ?"  asked  the 
master,  sternly. 

"Yes,  sir."  Yes,  Robinson  did  not  deny  it; 
nor  could  he  deny  that  he  played  with  it,  and 
won  with  it,  the  day  before,  and  that  he  refused 
to  sell  or  barter  it  away.  It  was  in  his  pocket — 
that  was  clear — when  the  boys  started  on  their 
evening  excursion. 

In  truth,  and  in  short,  Robinson  was  guilty. 
The  temptation  to  mischief  had  been  too  strong 
to  be  resisted — that  is,  he  had  not  resisted  it. 
The  fun  of  siily  breaking  a  window,  joined  with 
the  idea  that  it  would  be  a  just  punishment  for 
the  man  who  would  not  illuminate,  had  reached 
to  his  fingers'  ends ;  and  in  the  excitement  of 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     143 

his  mischievous  propensity,  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  his  "little  fairy,"  and  had  sent  it  on  the 
evil  mission,  believmg  it  to  be  a  marble  of  com- 
mon stone  or  clay. 
•Poor  Robinson— foolish  Robinson — truthless 
Robinson  !  How  he  trembled,  and  stammered, 
and  coloured,  and  became  pale  and  coloured 
again,  when  the  mischief  and  the  guilt  were 
brought  home  to  him. 

"  But,  sir,  sir — 0  sir,  it  was  not  a  lie — it  was 
not  indeed,  sir,  if  you  will  but  think,  sir.  I  said, 
sir — I  said  I  did  not  throw  the  marble,  and  in- 
deed I  did  not,  sir." 

"No?     How  then?" 

UI— I  shot  it  off,  sir." 

"  That  is  a  mean,  disgraceful,  and  sinful 
equivocation,"  said  the  master,  angrily;  "an 
equivocation  of  which  I  could  have  hoped  not 
one  of  my  pupils  would  have  been  guilty." 

Robinson  hung  his  head. 

"  You  may  well  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  sir," 
continued  the  tutor  ;  "  and — " 

"Allow  me  to  interpose,"  said  the  good- 
humoured  gentleman ;  "  for  perhaps  I  am  in 
fault.  I  should  have  shown  the  marble  at  once, 
and  then  the  temptation  *would. not  have  been 
placed  before  this  lad.  The  window-breaking  I 
forgive,  with  all  my  heart ;  though  I  hope  our 
young  friends  will  not  henceforth  think  it  ne- 
cessary or  expedient  to  break  the  windows  of 
all  who  do  not  act  precisely  according  to  their 


144  THE  GENERAL   ILLUMINATION. 

own  views  of  what  may  be  right  and  proper. 
Were  we  all  to  do  so,"  continued  the  friendly 
visitor,  with  a  smile,  "there%ould  not  be  many 
sound  panes  of  glass  in  the  country,  I  fear. 
Well,  that  is  settled,  and  we  will  shake  hands 
over  the  broken  window  :"  and  Mr.  Martin  held 
out  his  hand  to  the  culprit,  who,  timidly  and  with 
averted  face,  responded  to  the  invitation. 

"But  the  falsehood,  young  friend,  the  false- 
hood— for  a  falsehood  it  was — do  you  not  feel 
it  to  have  been  such  ?  that  is  another  matter.  I 
may  forgive  you,  and  take  blame  to  myself  for 
leading  you  into  temptation ;  but  you  have  griev- 
ously offended  your  best  Friend.  He  has  given 
you  a  tongue,  but  not  for  double-dealing : 
thought  and  wit,  but  not  to  contrive  how  your 
neighbour  may  be  outwitted  in  the  strife  of 
words.     Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

The  boy  made  no  reply  ;  and  the  gentleman, 
still  holding  his  reluctant  hand,  went  on  : — 

"  There  are  men  as  well  as  boys  who  fancy  it 
is  cunning  to  use  the  letter  of  truth  in  the  spirit 
of  falsehood ;  but  as  the  Lord  looketh  not  on 
the  outward  appearance,  but  at  the  heart,  so 
also  doth  he  look  at  the  intention  to  deceive  or 
mislead,  and  not  at  the  words  which  convey  the 
deception. 

"  I  will  not  tire  you  by  further  speech,"  said 
the  kind-hearted  man,  "  except  to  commend  to 
you,  and  all  your  schoolfellows,  the  words  of 
honest  George  Herbert : — 


THE  GENERAL  ILLUMINATION.     145 

'Lie  not,  but  let  thy  heart  be  true  to  God, 
Thy  mouth  to  it;  thy  actions  to  them  both  : 
Cowards  tell  lies,  and  those  that  fear  the  rod; 
The  stormy  working  soul  spits  lies  and  froth. 
— Dare  to  be  true.     Nothing  can  need  a  lie  : 
A  fault  which  needs  it  most,  grows  two  thereby ! 

u  And  now^  my  friend,"  said  the  visitor,  turn- 
ing to  the  master,  "  I  have  somewhat  usurped 
your  magisterial  authority  ;  but  I  know  you  will 
pardon  me,  and  I  would  fain  be  an  advocate 
with  you  for  this  lad.  I  think  he  is  sorry  that 
he  injured  me  ;  and  I  have  freely  forgiven  him  : 
I  trust  you  will  forgive  him  also.  And  will  you 
also  forbear  to  punish,  this  time,  the  remissness 
in  truth  of  which  you  may  justly  complain? 
The  temptation  was  doubtless  strong :  and 
strong  men,  you  know,  have  ere  now  fallen  in 
like  manner.  I  hope — nay,  I  will  believe,  he 
will  be  henceforth  more  guarded,  and  remember 
that  equivocation  is  deceit,  and  that  deceit  is 
hateful  to  the  God  of  truth.  I  think  I  see  peni- 
tence in  his  eye:  will  you  forgive  him?" 

The  appeal  was  successful,  punishment  was 
remitted  :  and,  after  a  kind  farewell  to  the  pu- 
pils, Mr.  Martin  was  about  to  leave  the  school- 
room, when,  darting  from  his  seat,  a  little  fellow 
ran  up  to  him — 

"  Sir,  sir,  may  I  shake  hands  with  you  ?"  and 
in  another  minute  the  whole  school  had  followed 
his  example. 

Had  there  been  a  general  illumination  on  the 
succeeding  evening,  not  a  schoolboy  there  but 


146  r         THE  GENERAL   ILLUMINATION. 

would  have  been  proud  to  guard  the  house  of 
their  friend  from  injury. 

And  now,  young  reader,  take  a  lesson  and  a 
warning.  Schoolboys  are  apt  to  do  mischievous 
things  foolishly  and  thoughtlessly,  but  some- 
times wickedly.  There  is  one  rule  which,  if 
well  regarded,  would  keep  them  from  this — the 
golden  rule  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ :  "  What- 
soever ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do 
ye  even  so  to  them. 

But  having  foolishly,  or  thoughtlessly,  or 
wickedly  perpetrated  mischief,  or  having,  by 
any  means,  got  into  what  you  call  "a  scrape," 
take  care  that  you  are  not  tempted  to  make 
the  matter  worse  by  equivocation.  The  word 
of  God  is  plain  on  this  point.  God  abhors 
deceit ;  and  his  plain  and  awful,  but  just  and 
righteous  declaration  is,  that  into  heaven  shall 
never  enter  "  any  thing  that  defileth,  neither 
whatsoever  worketh  abomination,  or  maketh  a 
lie."  Lay  these  words  to  heart,  young  friend. 
"  Value" — you  will  come  to  these  words  again 
at  the  end  of  this  book ;  but  they  will  bear 
reading  twice — "  Value  your  honour,  truthful- 
ness, and  integrity.  Detest  every  thing  like 
duplicity  and  deceit.  Dont  go  ivithin  a  mile 
of  a  lie." 


VII. 
THE  BUSY  BOY  WHO  WAS  ALWAYS  IDLE, 

"  Ah  !  Hammond,  Hammond,  you  are  smart 
enough — you  have  talents  enough — to  be  a 
shining  character  some  of  these  days.  I  see 
nothing  to  prevent  it,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  things,  excepting  one  terrible  drawback ; 
you  are  so  idle — so  incorrigibly  idle.  If  you 
permit  this  to  grow  upon  you,  your  abilities 
will  do  you  no  good ;  they  will  only  add  to 
your  shame.  Do  combat  this  unworthy  dis- 
position, my  boy,  and  think  that  you  came  into 
the  world  to  do  earnestly  what  is  to  be  done  at 
all." 

Thus  spoke  the  master,  as  the  scholar  stood 
before  him,  self-convicted  of  the  fault  with 
which  he  was  charged,  but  not  disposed  to 
mend  it. 

Hammond  was  idle — not  positively  lazy,  but 
idle  ;  and  between  laziness  and  idleness  there 
is  a  great  difference.  For  instance,  Hammond 
had  a  school-fellow  whose  greatest  pleasure 
consisted  in  absolute  inactivity,  both  of  body 
and  mind.  He  could  not  be  roused  to  exert 
himself  in  any  thing.     Work  or  play,  it  was 

147      ' 


148  THE   BUSY  BOY 

all  the  same  to  Edmund.  When  all  the  rest 
of  the  boys  were  making  the  air  ring  with 
joyous  shouts,  and  scampering,  as  if  for  a  prize, 
Edmund  was  dragging  slowly  along 

"  Over  the  hills  and  far  away," 

as  though  at  least  a  seven  pound  weight  of  lead 
or  iron  were  fastened  to  each  of  his  heels.  When 
they  were,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  tiring  and 
strengthening  themselves  by  hard  labour  in 
their  various  athletic  games,  he  was  generally 
stretched  at  full  length  on  the  grass,  with  eyes 
half  shut,  and  mind  far  more  than  half  vacant. 
When,  with  greater  or  less  alacrity,  they  were 
preparing  lessons  for  school,  Edmund  was  dog's- 
earing  his  books  in  utter  dislike  of  the  trouble 
of  learning. 

Sometimes  (perhaps  generally)  when  boys 
exhibit  such  an  utter  want  of  interest  in  all 
that  surrounds  them,  and  such  a  fixed  disin- 
clination to  do  with  all  their  might,  or  with  any 
part  of  it,  what  they  are  required  to  perform 
— we  must  suppose  that  it  arises,  in  part  at 
least,  from  ill  health.  In  such  <;ases  medical 
treatment  is  more  needed  than  scolding  and 
compulsion.  But  Edmund's  ailment  was  spi- 
ritual, and  not  bodily.  He  was  blessed  with 
strong  bones,  firm  flesh,  a  healthy  skin,  and  a 
good  digestion — ay,  a  famous  digestion ;  but 
he  was  hopelessly  slothful  in  mind,  and  his 
mind  influenced  his  body.     In  a  word,  he  was 


WHO  WAS   ALWAYS   IDLE.  149 

one  of  the  lazy  ones  of  whom  it  has  been  said 
or  sung — 


"  There  are  a  number  of  us  creep 
Into  this  world  to  eat  and  sleep ,• 
And  know  no  reason  why  they're  born, 
But  merely  to  consume  the  corn, 
Devour  the  cattle,  fowl,  and  fish, 
And  leave  behind  an  empty  dish. 
They  eat  and  drink  and  sleep,  and  then- 
They  eat  and  drink  and  sleep  again." 


Such  was  Edmund,  who  was  a  lazy  fellow ; 
but  not  such,  by  any  means,  was  young  Ham- 
mond, who  was  an  idle  fellow,  but  not  a  lazy 
one. 

We  said  that  Hammond  was  self-convicted 
of  his  fault.  He  could  not  help  feeling  that, 
in  the  particular  instance  which  had  called 
down  rebuke,  he  had  been  negligent.  His 
lesson,  whatever  it  was,  had  not  been  half 
learned,  though  he  had  plenty  of  time  in  which 
to  learn  it.  But?  he  was  not  disposed  to  admit 
the  general  accusation. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  been 
idle.  I  have  not,  I  assure  you,  sir."  He  said 
this  half  indignantly,  half  apologetically,  quite 
respectfully,  however — for  he  was  really  a  free, 
open-hearted,  and  good-humoured  boy — and 
very  earnestly.  "  I  have  not  been  idle,  1 
assure  you,  sir." 

"  Then  how  is  it  that  you  do  not  know  this 

lesson?"    asked  Mr.  D . 

13* 


150  THE   BUSY  BOY 

"  Sir,  I  really  did  not  think  of  it  till  this 
morning  I  was  so  busy  with  other  things 
that  it  slipped  my  memory.  I  ought  not  to 
have  neglected  it,  sir ;  but  that  is  how  it  was." 

"What  other  things,  then,  have  you  been 
busy  about,  Hammond?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  know  there  is  the  arbour  we 
are  building, — that  has  taken  a  good  deal  of  my 
time ;  then  there  is  the  plan  of  the  new  cot- 
tage which  I  promised  to  draw  for  Mr.  Har- 
graves ;  and  then,  sir,  last  night,  I  began  to 
put  fresh  covers  on  all  my  books :  besides 
these,  I  have  done  a  good  many  other  things- 
I  do  not  think  I  have  had  an  idle  minute,  sir, 
since  this  lesson  was  set  me;  I  do  not,  indeed." 

"All  these  are  good  and  proper  matters," 
replied  the  master ;  "  and  it  may  be  that  you 
have  thought  yourself  very  busily  employed; 
but  I  do  not  withdraw  my  accusation.  There 
is  such  a  thing  as  busy  idleness,  my  boy ;  and 
busy  idleness  is  your  great  failing. 

"  There  is  a  numerous  class  of  people  in  the 
world,"  continued  the  kind-hearted  tutor  with 
great  seriousness,  "  who  act  as  you  are  con- 
stantly acting.  They  are  always  restlessly 
busy,  and  always,  also,  lamentably  idle.  Do 
you  not  understand  how  this  can  be  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  hesitatingly,  "I 
cannot  quite  see  that,  sir.  If  a  person  is 
always  at  work,  or  always  busy  about  some- 
thing," continued  Hammond,  ready  always  to 


WHO   WAS   ALWAYS   IDLE.  15 J 

speak  his  mind,  "I  don't  see  how  he  can  be 
called  idle." 

"  Do  you  not?  Now,  I  rather  wonder  at 
that,  Hammond;  you  are  not  deficient  in  per- 
ception:" (Hammond  brightened  up  at  this:) 
"however,  I  will  explain  how  it  can  be. 

"Every  man,  woman,  and  child,"  continued 

Mr.   D ,    "has  always  a  present  duty  to 

perform ;  something  to  do,  to  which  all  other 
things,  for  the  time  being,  ought  to  be  subor- 
dinate.    You  can  understand  that?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"I  do  not  know,"  continued  the  master, 
"that  a  single  exception  can  justly  be  made 
to  this  rule.  No — there  must  be  a  present 
duty.  The  statesman,  the  man  of  wealth,  the 
professional  man,  the  tradesman,  the  mechanic, 
the  day-labourer — these,  with  their  wives, 
children,  and  servants,  (if  they  have  them,) 
have  all  their  specific  daily  and  hourly  present 
duties  which  cannot  be  neglected  without  fault. 
Unhappily,  many  do  not  like  being  bound 
down  by  this  right  and  proper  rule.  Some 
would  prefer  doing  nothing  at  all;  these  are 
the  lazy  ones.  Others  prefer  doing  something 
other  than  the  present  duty ;  and  these  are 
the  idle  ones." 

Hammond  began  to  catch  a  faint  idea  of  his 
tutor's  meaning;  but  he  wished  the  lecture 
was  ended.     The  lecturer  went  on,  however. 

"I  know  many  men,  Hammond,  who  have 


152  THE   BUSY   BOY 

good  business  or  professions  to  which  it  is  their 
duty  to  attend ;  but,  being  idle,  they  prefer 
doing  something  else — tiring  themselves  out  in 
matters  which  ought  to  receive  a  very  limited 
share  of  their  attention.  They  are  ceaselessly 
active,  and  make  a  great  noise  with  their  ac- 
tivity, but  they  are  not  the  less  idle.  Now  this 
is  just  the  case  with  you,  my  boy :  you  forget 
that  you  have  a  present  duty.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ant occupation  to  help  build  an  arbour ;  it  is 
very  proper  for  you,  or  any  one,  to  oblige  a 
friend,  as  in  the  plan  of  a  new  cottage ;  it  is 
right  that  your  books  should  have  new  covers : 
all  these  matters  might  even  have  been — yes, 
they  would  have  been — present  duties  if  under- 
taken at  the  right  time.  But  you  had  a 
higher  claim  in  this  lesson,  and  in  thrusting 
that  aside  for  occupations  which  had  greater 
attractions,  you  were  busy  indeed,  but  only  i(^ly 
busy." 

"It  is  perpetually  so  with  you,  Hammond, 
All  your  activity  of  mind  and  body  is  mistimed 
and  disjointed :  and,  I  tell  you  again,  unless 
you  attain  a  habit  of  self-government,  self-de- 
nial and  application  to  one  thing  at  a  time, 
and  that  the  right  thing,  you  may  be  admired 
for  the  versatility  of  your  talents,  and  you  may 
also  be  always  in  a  bustle;  but  you  will  do 
nothing  well.  You  will  raise  for  yourself  ob- 
stacles to  success  in  life,  and  will  be  nothing 
more  titan  a  laborious  trifler — an   idle  man. 


WHO   WAS   ALWAYS   IDLE.  153 

Now  go,  and  attend  to  your  present  duty,  my 
boy." 

Glad  that  the  lecture  was  ended,  Hammond 
went  to  his  desk,  and  learned  his  lesson.  The 
next  day  he  was  as  idle  as  ever,  and  the  next, 
and  the  next. 

In  due  time  Hammond  left  school,  not 
altogether  unimproved,  perhaps,  but  with  the 
sad  blemish  still  remaining.  He  was  idle  and 
desultory ;  he  hated  continuous  application. 
In  other  respects  he  was  amiable ;  and  had 
not  his  idleness  interfered  and  placed  obstacles 
in  the  way,  he  would  have  been  a  promising 
youth. 

Hammond  left  school  with  what  would  gene- 
rally be  considered  good  prospects.  He  had 
friends,  able  and  willing  to  assist  him  in  any 
profession  which  he  might  choose  for  himself; 
and  that  choice  he  wTas  urged  to  make. 

Some  months 'passed  away,  and  the  choice 
was  not  yet  made.  He  was  perpetually  busy, 
too — at  least  he  thought  so.  Sometimes  it  was 
a  visit  he  had  to  make ;  at  others,  it  was  music 
he  had  to  copy ;  at  others,  he  had  a  book  to 
read ; '  at  others  some  drawings  to  finish ; — 
all  good  and  right  occupations  in  their  place, 
but  not  when  they  thrust  out  an  obvious 
duty. 

At  length,  when  the  down  upon  Hammond's 
upper  lip  began  visibly  to  remind  him  that,  try 
as  he  might,  he  could  not  always  be  a  boy,  he 


154  THE   BUSY   BOY 

made  his  election.    He  was  fond  of  riding,  and 
so  he  would  be  a  physician. 

Hammond's  father  shook  his  head  rather 
doubtfully  when  this  conclusion  was  arrived  at. 
He  knew  that  physicians  have  something  more 
to  do  than  to  ride  about  for  their  own  pleasure, 
and  he  told  his  son  so.  As,  however,  he  hoped 
that  a  profession  which  demands  no  small 
amount  of  labour,  perseverance,  and  self-denial 
would  have  a  beneficial  effect  upon  a  youth, 
active  enough,  but  neither  persevering  nor  self- 
denying,  he  consented  to  the  choice ;  and 
Hammond  entered  the  office  of  a  physician  of  i 
good  practice  in  a  neighbouring  town. 

But  Hammond  soon  found  that,  before  the 
pleasure  of  scouring  the  country  on  horseback 
could  be  enjoyed,  many  preliminary  steps  had 
to  be  taken  by  no  means  agreeable  to  him.  To 
stand  hour  after  hour  pounding  drugs,  mixing 
draughts,  or  making  pills,  was  not  only  tiresome 
and  monotonous,  but  produced  nausea ;  and  to 
attend  t<j  the  dressing  of  cuts,  bruises,  and 
•'  filthy  sores"  was  worse — it  was  disgusting. 
But  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  the  premium  had 
been  paid,  and  Hammond  was  "booked,"  as  he 
expressed  himself. 

To  make  amends,  as  far  as  he  could,  for  such 
disagreeable  employments,  the  doctor's  young 
apprentice  turned  all  his  leisure  time  and  inge- 
nuity, and  much  time  also  that  ought  not  to 
have  been  leisure,  to  other  pursuits.     Now,  he 


WHO   WAS   ALWAYS   IDLE.  155 

was  inventing,  or  trying  to  invent,  a  machine  to 
exhibit  and  illustrate  the  principle  of  perpetual 
motion.  Then,  giving  this  up  in  despair,  he 
expended  much  time  and  trouble  in  teaching  a 
pet  magpie  to  talk  intelligible  English.  He 
joined  a  choral  society,  a  boating  club,  and  a 
lodge  of  "odd-fellows,"  in  each  of  which,  or  in 
all  of  which  combined,  he  learned,  as  a  matter 
of  course  almost,  to  smoke  cigars,  and  to  drink, 
— as  his  own  particular  toast, — confusion  to  gal- 
lipots and  phials. 

Now  all  this  might  be  very  entertaining,  but 
it  was  evidently  as  much  out  of  place  as  it  was 
wrong.  Thus,  as  when  a  boy  at  school,  Ham- 
mond had  the  knack  of  devotino;  his  energies  to 
anything  rather  than  the  "present  duty,"  so 
did  he  also  as  a  medical  student.  When,  there- 
fore, the  term  of  studies  expired,  he  knew  a  lit- 
tle of  many  things  not  particularly  useful,  or,  at 
least,  not  at  all  likely  to  be  useful  to  him ;  but 
with  the  profession  in  which  he  was  expected  to 
rise  he  had  made  but  a  very  slight  acquaintance. 

He  had,  moreover,  formed  friendships,  or 
what  he  called  such ;  and  among  the  loungers 
with  whom  too  much  of  his  time  had  been  spent 
was  a  young  man  as  restless  for  want  of  occu- 
pation, as  Hammond  was  in  spite  of  it.  He 
had  the  happiness,  or  unhappiness,  of  being 
rich. 

This  friend  (Harvey  Brown)  made  his  appear- 
ance at  the  house  of  Hammond's  father,  one 


156  THE   BUSY  BOY 

day,  soon  after  the  young  student  had  left  the 
scene  of  his  studies. 

"Hammond,"  said  he,  "I  mean  to  travel. 
Will  you  go  with  me?" 

"To  travel!     Where?" 

"  Anywhere.  I  am  bored  with  doing  nothing, 
and  must  see  something  of  life  : — France,  Italy, 
Germany,  Switzerland — one  or  all,  it  makes  no 
difference  to  me.     Will  you  go  ?" 

Hammond  shook  his  head.  "  I  cannot ;  I 
must  be  off  to  the  city — the  stupid  hospitals  ! 
Wish  I  could,  though  ;  but — " 

"  Pshaw  I  the  hospitals  won't  run  away.  Give 
them  the  slip  for  a  year." 

"  I  would  give  them  the  slip  forever,  if  I 
could,"  replied  Hammond;  "but  it  won't  do. 
I  must  scramble  through  the  world  somehow. 
Besides,  travelling  costs  money;  and — " 

"  That's  my  concern.  I  pa^  all  costs ;  so 
now,  once  more, — will  you  go  V 

The  iemptation  was  too  strong  for  Hammond 
to  resist.  He  obtained  the  reluctant  consent 
of  his  father,  who  told  him  that  time,  to  him, 
was  money,  and  in  less  than  a  month  the  two 
young  men  were  in  France. 


Two  years  passed  before  Hammond  found 
his  way  home  again ;  and  then  all  thoughts 
of  completing  his  professional  studies  had  va- 
nished. 

"  But  what  will  you  do  ?"  argued  hi?  father, 


WHO  WAS  ALWAYS   IDLE.  157 

in  deep  perplexity.  "  Consider  what  an  expense 
your  education  has  been  to  me  ;  and  I  am  not 
rich,  like  Harvey  Brown.  You  cannot  live  on 
nothing." 

"  It  would  be  throwing  good  money  after 
bad,"  said  the  young  man  :  "  it  would — depend 
upon  it.  I  shall  never  make  a  doctor :  I  am 
not  cut  out  for  it." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right,"  replied  the  anx- 
ious parent.  "  I  wonder  wThat  you  are  cut  out 
for.     Well,  what  do  you  think  of  doing  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I  have  thoughts  of  land-survey- 
ing. It  would  just  suit  me,  I  know.  I  wish  I 
had  thought  of  it  sooner.  But  it  is  never  too 
late  to  learn.  And,  indeed,  I  have  been  study- 
ing lately,  and — " 

"Land-surveying!"  exclaimed  the  father, 
cutting  Hammond  short  in  his  explanations  : 
"  and  have  you  considered,  sir,  that  you  are  now 
a  man  ?  And  after  what  your  medical  education 
has  cost,  do  you  suppose  I  should  be  justified  in 
indulging  you  in  this  freak  ?  Think,  my  son  ; 
be  sensible  for  once  in  your  life." 

"  I  was  never  more  sensible  than  I  am  now," 
replied  Hammond.  "  Only  think,  father,  and 
reckon.  You  know  pretty  well  what  it  would 
cost  to  get  me  through  the  hospital  work ;  to 
say  nothing  of  what  more  it  would  cost  to  buy 
me  a  practice  afterward,  and  to  say  nothing 
either  of  the  risk  of  innumerable  homicides,  and 
all  that  unpleasant  kind  of  thing.  Now  one 
14 


158  THE   BUST   BOY 

year  in  a  surveyor's  office,  would  give  me  % 
start,  and  would  be  less  expensive.  After  that 
I  would  shift  for  myself." 

This  logic  prevailed,  and  Hammond  soon  af- 
terward again  left  home. 

We  could  follow  Hammond  step  by  step 
almost,  through  many  succeeding  years  of  his 
life ;  but  a  sketch  only  was  intended,  and  we 
forbear.  He  is  now  hard  upon  forty  years  of 
age,  and  has  been  many  things  in  turn,  and 
nothing  long.  Every  new  scheme  has  involved 
fresh  expense  ;  and  he  is  now  poor  in  purse, 
and  poor  in  reputation.  He  liked  land-survey- 
ing as  little  as  he  liked  medicine ;  then  he 
became  a  farmer,  and  after  the  loss  of  half  his 
capita],  grew  tired  of  the  monotony  of  an 
agricultural  life,  and.  embarked  in  commerce. 
From  commerce  he  turned  to  manufacture ; 
and  from  one  branch  of  manufacture  to  another ; 
and  has  verified  the  proverb,  strikingly  appli- 
cable to  such  as  he,  "  The  thoughts  of  every 
one  that  is  hasty  tend  only  to  want."  Prov. 
xxi.  5.  He  now  talks  of  gathering  together 
:  -  remnants  of  his  former  possessions, 
and    seeking  on  another   part  of   the   world's 

rfac  that  prosperity  which  has  here  eluded 
his  grasp.  But  unless  he  resolutely  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  and  banish  or  overcome  that  real, 
genuine  idleness,  which,  restless  and  bustling 
as  it  may  seem,  ever  neglects  present  duty  for 
subordinate   pursuits,  and  fancies   ever   some 


WHO    WAS    ALWAYS    IDLE.  159 

untold  advantage  in  perpetual  change,  it  is  to 
be  feared  that  even  this  last  resort  will  fail. 

Schoolboys,  there  is  a  moral  to  this  sketch 
That  moral  has  already  been  read.  But  it  has 
a  still  deeper,  sadder  application.  Many  a 
one  more  wise  than  Hammond  in  that  worldly 
diligence  which  "tends  to  plenteousness"  is 
yet  supremely  foolish  in  the  affairs  of  eternity. 
Neglecting  the  ever  present  duty  of  seeking 
"  first  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  his  righteous- 
ness," he  suffers  himself  to  be  drawn  aside  by 
every  passing"  toy,  or  "  driven  with  the  wind 
and  tossed."  He  knows  himself  to  be  a  sinner, 
and  Christ  Jesus  to  be  the  Saviour  of  sinners ; 
and  he  means  to  flee  to  that  only  hope  and 
refuge.  But  still,  in  restless  activity  about 
"  the  things  which  are.  seen  and  temporal," 
and  in  idle  indifference  toward  "  the  things 
which  are  not  seen  and  are  eternal,"  the  lan- 
guage of  his  heart  is,  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
and  to-morrow. 

Young  friend,  is  it  so  with  you  ?  Ah  !  be 
not  so  unwise.  Abandon,  once  for  all,  your 
criminal  trifling.  Hear  the  words  which  the 
Holy  Spirit  teaches  :  "  To-day  if  ye  will  hear 
his  voice,  harden  not  your  heart."  Your 
"  present  duty"  is  "  to  lay  hold  on  the  hope 
set  before  you;"  to  believe  in  the  Saviour  of 
sinners ;  to  close  with  the  offers  of  God's  mercy, 
to    seek  eternal  life,   and  to  seek  it  in  God's 


160  THE   BUSY   BOY 

appointed  way — through  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Prince  of  life,  the  atoning  sacrifice,  the  only* 
Mediator  between  God  and  man.  Yes,  young 
reader,  this  is  your  duty,  your  present  duty. 
Let  this,  then,  be  your  first  great  concern. 

Your  present  duty !  Try  to  find  out  the 
worth  of  your  soul,  dear  young  friend ;  that  is 
your  present  duty.  Have  you  never  tried  your 
powers  on  this  problem  ?  Try  them  now,  then 
— not  to-morrow. 

"  Don't  tell  us  of  to-morrow  ! 
I*  must  be  done  to-day  : 
'Twill  never  be  accomplish'd 
While  you  throw  the  hours  away." 

Find  out,  then,  the  value  of  your  soul,  by 
the  test  which  the  Pivine  Saviour  has  taught 
us  to  apply :  "  What  shall  it  profit  a  man,  if 
he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own 
soul  ?  or  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange 
for  his  soul?"  Your  present  duty,  young 
friend,  is  to  find  an  answer  to  these  questions. 

Your  present  duty  !  To  value  and  make 
the  most  of  your  present  advantages  ;  that  is 
your  present  duty.  To  "remember  thy  Creator 
in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while  the  evil  days 
come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou 
shalt  say,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them ;"  this  is 
your  present  duty. 

To  say,  or  think,  when  any  difficulty  seems 


WHO   WAS  ALWAYS  IDLE.  161 

to  arise  to  prevent  you  from  doing  what  your 
conscience  tells  you,  and  the  Bible  tells  you, 
ought  to  be  done,  and  done  at  once,  "  There  is 
a  lion  without,  I  shall  be  slain  in  the  streets;" 
this  is  not  your  present  duty.  "It  is  only  by 
meeting  and  overcoming  difficulties  that  you 
can  form  a  manly  and  strong" — and  what  is 
more,  a  Christian — "character."  One  victory 
over  temptation  paves  the  way  for  other  and 
greater  victories.  One  instance  of  cowardly 
yielding  to  temptation  weakens  the  soul  for 
future  conflicts.  Sloth,  nke  all  other  evil 
habits,  gathers  strength  by  indulgence. 

"  There  have  been  multitudes  before  you 
who  set  aside  present  duty  by  the  help  of  this 
or  that  plausible  reason,  and  at  the  same  time 
dream  of  great  activity  in  some  indefinite  future 
time.  Vain  dream !  how  vain,  their  dying 
hour  revealed  to  them.  If  you  imitate  their 
folly,  you  will  find  out  at  last,  to  your  sorrow, 
as  they  did,  that  the  real  hindrances  to  God's 
service  you  carry  about  with  you  in  your  own 
bosom,  and  that  no  change  of  circumstances 
can  remove  them.  If,  then,  you  would  not 
live  a  life  of  sloth,  and  die  a  death  of  anguish 
and  despair,  awake  at  once  to  the  performance 
of  duty.  God  helps  the  earnest :  the  sluggard 
he  leaves  to  want." 

Yes,  God  does  help  the  earnest.  He  says 
to  you,  young  friends,  "Ask,  and  it  shall  be 
14* 


162 


THE   BUSY   BOY,    ETC. 


given  you ;  seek,  and  ye  shall  find  ;  knock,  and 
it  shall  be  opened  unto  you :  for  every  one 
that  asketh  receiveth  ;  and  he  that  seeketh 
findeth  ;  and  to  him  that  knocketh  it  shall  be 
opened."    Matt.  vii.  7   8. 


f  ( 


y-> 


S4: 


VIII. 
CONCLUSION. 

Schoolboys  !  our  review  of  school  days  is 
ended ;  but  our  book — not  quite. 

A  few  years  ago  were  gathered  together  the 
teachers  and  pupils,  not  of  our  school,  but  of 
one  much  larger.  It  was  "the public  day,"  as 
it  was  called  ;  and  many  beside  teachers  and 
pupils  were  there  to  witness  its  proceedings. 
There  were  prizes  awarded,  and  other  proceed- 
ings, (with  which  schoolboys  are  familiar,)  pre- 
paratory to  going  home.  Of  these,  however, 
we  do  not  intend  to  give  you  any  account.  But 
beside  these,  an  address  was  made  to  those 
who  were  that  day  assembled ;  and  from  that 
part  of  it  which  more  particularly  concerned, 
the  boys,  we  shall  find  and  borrow  a  fitting  con- 
clusion to  our  tales.  Here  it  is  ;  and  let  every 
schoolboy  in  whose  hands  this  book  may  be 
placed,  read  it  attentively  and  prayerfully : — 

"  My  dear  boys  :  knowledge  is  good,  large  in- 
formation is  very  desirable ;  but  religious  know- 
ledge is  absolutely  necessary.  Science,  litera- 
ture and  elegant  accomplishments,  all  that  gives 
to  the  intellect  greatness  or  refinement,  if  pos- 
sessed apart  from  religious  faith  and  holy  char- 

163 


161  CONCLUSION. 

acter,  are  only  as  flowers  that  adorn  the  dead. 
There  is  a  knowledge  which  purifies  while  it 
expands ;  which  is  life  to  the  soul,  as  well  as 
light  to  the  intellect ;  which  will  go  with  you 
to  any  world,  and  prepare  you  for  any,  by 
guiding  you  safely  through  the  dangers  of  this. 
Seek  that  knowledge  where  you  know  it  is  to 
be  found — in  those  Holy  Scriptures  'which  are 
able  to  make  you  wise  unto  salvation  through 
faith  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus.'  Cultivate,  dear 
youth,  piety  toward  God,  deep  reverence  for 
his  presence,  his  service  and  his  name.  Pray 
to  him  for  that  pardon  of  sin  which  boys  need 
as  well  as  men,  and  for  that  grace  which  chil- 
dren, as  well  as  adults,  can  receive.  The  pro- 
mise is  to  you  as  well  as  to  us. 

"  In  relation  to  your  general  conduct,  I 
should  like  you  to  associate  real  nobility  and 
greatness  of  character  with  what  is  moral — 
with  habitual  obedience  to  the  law  of  conscience, 
and  the  dictates  of  duty.  Vice  is  mean  and  de- 
grading, as  well  as  wrong.  In  the  Bible,  sin- 
ners are  represented  as  objects  of  contempt  as 
well  as  of  condemnation.  A  bad  boy  knows 
well  enough  that  he  deserves  to  be  despised,  for 
he  cannot  help  sometimes  despising  himself. 
Do,  bravely  and  manfully,  every  thing  that  you 
feel  you  ought.  Cultivate  a  generous,  open, 
unsuspicious  temper.  Despise  selfishness  ;  hate 
and  loath  it  in  all  its  forms  of  vanity,  sloth,  self- 
will,  oppression  of  the  weak,  harshness  to  the 


CONCLUSION.  165 

timid,  refusal  of  help  which  it  would  be  proper 
to  render,  or  of  little  sacrifices  to  se/ve  others. 
Detest  every  thing  like  dupKcity  and  deceit. 
Don't  go  within  a  mile  of  a  lie  !  Value  your 
honour,  truthfulness  and  integrity.  When  you 
have  misunderstandings,  do  not  be  ashamed  of 
acknowledging  error,  or  apologizing  for  wrong. 
As  soon  as  possible,  be  rid  of  grudges  and  re- 
sentments, and  live  together  in  cheerfulness 
and  love.  Be,  in  manners,  at  once  frank  and 
courteous — in  act  and  conversation,  delicate 
and  pure.  In  one  word,  desire  in  all  things  so 
to  behave  yourselves  that  as  you  '  grow  in  sta- 
ture,' you  may  'grow  in  wisdom  and  in  favour 
with  God  and  man.' 

"  One  word  in  relation  to  your  studies — 
Work.  Work  well,  hard,  cheerfully.  Don't 
wish  to  get  through,  or  to  get  off  easily,  or  to  be 
indebted  to  any  one  for  any  thing  whatever 
that  you  ought  to  know  and  to  do  yourselves. 
Every  thing  depends  on  your  diligence  and  in- 
dustry. Let  none  of  you  fancy  that  because 
you  have  genius  you  may  dispense  with  labour. 
No  boy  ever  translated  Homer  by  inspiration. 
Nothing  valuable  is,  in  this  world,  either  done 
or  got  without  effort.  6  Nature  gives  us  some- 
thing at  first' — something  to  start  with — our  ori- 
ginal capacity,  whatever  it  may  be.  '  Every 
thing  else,  after  this,  she  sells — sells  always — 
sells  to  all — and  sells  dear.  You  must  pay  the 
price.     By   intellectual   labour  you  may  pur- 


166  CONCLUSION. 

chase  for  yourselves  attainments  and  distinc- 
tion ;  happiness  and  respect  come  by  virtue. 
If  you  like,  you  may  be  idle,  thoughtless, 
wicked ;  the  price  is  ignorance,  contempt,  ruin. 
Nothing  will  come  to  you  in  this  way.  Recol- 
lect, also,  that  in  the  long  run  there  can  be  no 
mistake.  No  boy  or  man  can  ever  really  get 
what  he  has  not  purchased,  or  carry  away  what 
belongs  to  another :  or,  if  he  does  so,  or  appears 
to  do  so,  he  cannot  keep  it  for  any  long  time 
without  being  detected.  Every  day  is  a  day 
of  judgment — a  day  of  reaping  as  you  have 
sown — of  revelation  of  what  you  are.  '  No  man 
is  concealed,'  or  can  be.  Not  one  of  you  can 
go  through  life,  all  the  way,  with  the  reputation 
and  character  of  a  good  scholar,  if  you  are  not 
really  such.  Things  will  be  constantly  occur- 
ring to  reveal  you,  and  society  will  not  be  long 
in  ascertaining  your  precise  height  and  depth, 
your  solid  contents  and  superficial  dimensions. 
In  the  same  way,  you  cannot  pass  for  what  you 
are  not  in  respect  to  your  actual  moral  charac- 
ter ;  somehow  or  other,  you  will  come  to  find  your- 
self weighed  and  measured.  You  will  pass 
among  your  fellows  for  what  you  are  worth,  and 
for  nothing  more ;  if  you  are  worthless,  the 
world  will  soon  make  the  discovery,  and  it  will 
let  you  know  that  it  has  made  it.  Depend  upon 
it,  the  best  way  to  be  thought  good  is  to  be 
good ;  the  surest  mode  of  being  held  in  reputa- 
tion is  to  have  a  character. 


CONCLUSION.  157 

"  If,  at  this  moment,  I  could  gather  together 
here  all  the  pupils  that  have  ever  been  located 
within  these  walls  ;  if  I  could  summon  them 
from  wheresoever  they  sojourn,  and  cause  them 
to  surround  you  in  visible  forms,  and  thus  show 
you  exactly  what  they  are,  it  would  be  a  most 
affecting  and  instructive  spectacle.  Many, 
probably,  would  have  to  rise  from  their  graves ; 
of  these,  some  would  appear  as  spirits  of  light ; 
some,  it  is  to  be  feared,  with  the  awful  aspect 
of  lost  souls.  Others  would  be  brought  from 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  the  isles  of  the  sea ; 
from  under  ancient  dynasties  and  new  republics ; 
from  continents  and  colonies  of  another  hemi- 
sphere :  of  these  some  would  be  found  to  be 
honourably  engaged  in  commercial  enterprise ; 
some  to  have  been  driven  from  their  fatherland 
by  folly  or  misfortune ;  some  to  have  gone 
voluntarily  forth  as  ministers  and  missionaries 
— the  highest  form  and  office  of  humanity.  Of 
those  that  would  come  from  the  towns  and  cities 
of  our  country,  how  great  would  be  the  number ; 
how  varied  the  pursuits;  how  different  in  their 
tastes,  habits,  and  character ;  how  changed  in 
appearance — perhaps  in  opinions,  sympathy, 
belief — from  what  they  were,  when  in  this 
school,  as  they  plied  their  tasks,  or  bounded  in 
the  playground,  #>r  kneeled  in  prayer  !  Many 
would  be  here,  (there  can  be  no  doubt,)  who  have 
passed  through  life,  and  are  passing  through, 
it,    with   honourable    characters   and   spotless 


168  CONCLUSION. 

reputation  ;  many  who  are  enjoying  the  fruits 
and  rewards  of  steadiness  and  industry ;  and 
many  beside,  who,  adding  to  their  virtue  faith, 
and  following  out  their  religious  training,  are 
known  and  esteemed  as  religious  men,  and 
adorn  the  community  in  which  they  move. 
Pleasant  would  it  be  to  look  upon  the  coun- 
tenances of  such  men — men  of  intelligence, 
virtue,  and  religion ;  pleasant  for  you  to  hear 
their  words  of  encouragement,  and  their  united 
testimony  to  the  advantages  of  learning — the 
worth  of  goodness — the  possibility  of  securing, 
and  the  satisfaction  flowing  from,  the  friend* 
ship  of  God. 

"  While  such  as  these  might  allure  and 
attract  you  toward  holiness  and  heaven,  there 
would  be  some  others  whose  career  and  appear- 
ance would  operate  upon  you  in  another  man- 
ner; whose  ruined  characters  and  blighted 
prospects,  debilitated  health,  reckless  habits, 
wretchedness  and  shame,  would  alarm  and 
deter  you  from  following  their  courses,  and 
move  your  hearts  by  pity  and  terror.  Some 
of  these,  perhaps,  when  at  school,  were  gay  and 
buoyant,  loved  by  their  associates,  and  worthy 
to  be  loved.  They  entered  life  with  high  hopes 
and  bright  prospects ;  they  were  the  pride  of 
their  parents ;  every  thing  wa§  done  for  them 
to  secure  and  facilitate  their  advancement  and 
success :  with  all  this,  they  have  come  to  be 
what  I  have  described — a  ruin  and  a  wreck. 


CONCLUSION.  169 

If  sucli  could  speak,  they  would  probably  tell 
you  that  they  fell  from  not  having  a  fixed, 
settled,  and  serious  aim  in  life :  that  they 
gave  themselves  up  to  the  satisfactions  of  the 
moment,  whatever  they  might  be ;  passed 
thoughtlessly  from  pleasure  to  pleasure  ;  cared 
for  nothing  but  immediate  enjoyment,  having 
no  idea  of  living  for  any  great  or  honourable 
purpose.  Thus,  wasting  their  talents  and 
squandering  their  time,  they  easily  proceeded 
from  folly  to  vice,  till  they  found  themselves 
utterly  and  irretrievably  ruined. 

"But  instead  of  fancying  what  they  might 
sa^  I  will  tell  you  what  actually  was  said  by  a 
man  of  good  abilities  and  finished  education, 
who  thus  wasted  life  and  saw  his  error  when 
too  late.  'Let  my  example  warn  you  of  a 
fatal  error  into  which  I  have  fallen,'  said  he  to 
a  friend  at  his  bedside.  'I  have  pursued 
amusements,  instead  of  turning  my  ingenuity 
and  talents  to  useful  purposes.  I  am  sensible 
that  my  mind  was  fit  for  greater  things  than 
any  of  which  I  am  now  or  was  ever  supposed 
to  be  capable.  I  am  able  to  speak  fluently  in 
public,  and  I  have  perceived  that  my  manner 
of  speaking  has  always  increased  the  force  of 
what  I  said :  upon  various  important  subjects  I 
am  not  deficient  in  useful  information  ;  and  if 
I  had  employed  half  the  time  and  half  the 
pains  in  cultivating  serious  knowledge  which  I 
have  wasted  in  exerting  my  powers  upon  trifles, 
15 


170  CONCLUSION. 

instead  of  dissipating  my  fortune  and  tarnishing 
my  character,  I  should  have  become  a  useful 
member  of  society,  and  an  honour  to  my  family. 
Remember  my  advice,  young  man.  Pursue 
what  is  useful  to  mankind.  You  will  satisfy 
them,  and,  what  is  better,  you  will  satisfy 
yourself.' 

"  Such  was  the  melancholy  close  of  a  sinful 
course.  God  forbid  that  any  of  the  bright 
eyes  that  are  now  before  me,  glistening  with 
the  dew  of  their  young  life,  and  sparkling  with 
the  light  of  hope  and  joy,  should  come  to  be 
dimmed  with  regrets  like  these !  Nay,  God 
forbid  that  any  of  you,  my  dear  boys,  should 
neglect  to  learn  the  important  lesson,  that  what 
formed  the  highest  object  of  this  dying  man's 
ambition  and  desire,  even  if  attained,  however 
it  might  really  '  satisfy'  the  world,  ought  not 
alone  to  '  satisfy  yourselves.'  The  best  that 
he  wished  he  had  lived  for  and  aimed  at,  is 
short  of  the  best  that  you  should  pursue.  God 
is  to  be  satisfied  as  well  as  'mankind.'  How- 
ever the  one  may  be  content  with  virtue,  the 
other  requires  piety  and  faith.  He  demands 
character  founded  on  religion — usefulness  flow- 
ing from  love  to  Himself.  Your  best  doings 
will  be  imperfect ;  you  will  need  mercy  to 
pardon  sin — the  Holy  Spirit  to  implant  prin- 
ciples of  heavenly  strength — grace  to  renew 
and  sanctify  the  heart — the  atonement  of 
Christ  believed,  trusted  in,  pleaded  in  prayer 


CONCLUSION. 


171 


as  the  source  of  hope  and  the  ground  of  accep- 
tance. 'Seek  first  the  kingdom  of  God.' 
4  Study  to  show  yourselves  approved  unto  1dm' 
6  Serve  him  with  reverence  and  godly  fear.' 
'Be  strong  in  the  grace  that  is  in  Christ  Jesus.' 
i  See  that  ye  neglect  not  the  great  salvation.' 
'  Flee  also  youthful  lusts  :  but  follow  righteous- 
ness, faith,  charity,  peace,  with  them  that  call 
on  the  Lord  out  of  a  pure  heart.'  Pursuing  a 
course  of  holy  action  and  religious  usefulness, 
you  will  come  to  know  the  truth  of  the 
memorable  words  of  one  of  our  devout  and 
illustrious  ancestors  : — '  You  have  been  ac- 1 
customed,'  said  Philip  Henry  to  a  friend  stand- \ 
ing  by  his  bedside,  as  he  was  about  to  die — 
'you  have  been  accustomed  to  note  th&J.asfr  i 
words  of  dying  men. ^Jthese  are  mine:  /A  life,* 

*  SPENT  IN  THE  SERVICE  OF  GrOD  IS  THE  HAPPIEST 
LIFE  UPON  EARTH.' '""" 


/ 


